current

The Mark of Cain

by Ray Tabler

“Rachel?”

“Yes, dear?”

"Why do some people walk funny?”

“I told you, Mary. Jonathon fell down the big hill before you were born and hurt his leg. That’s why he walks that way. It’s not his fault, and calling attention to it is rude.” Rachel chided the girl without looking up from her sewing.

“No, silly!” Mary giggled, “I mean them.”

Now Rachel did glance at the child and followed her outstretched arm across the golden fields surrounding the village. In the distance, a line of figures was topping the rise to the south.

“They’re all in a line, like a mommy duck and her little ones! Quack! Quack!” Mary jumped to her feet and ran around in a circle, flapping her arms and shaking her bottom.

“Mary … Mary,” Rachel said more sternly the second time. With the innate sense that children have, Mary realized that the adult was serious and reluctantly ceased her dance to see what boring adult thing Rachel wanted now. “Go to the north fields and tell Michael there are strangers coming from the south. Don’t dally along the way. Run as fast as you can. Everyone will want to be here to greet the newcomers.”

Mary considered the assignment for a moment. “All right,” she said with a petulant shrug and dashed off, realizing that there were worse things to do than run through ripe fields of grain on a warm, bright autumn day.
Rachel watched her until she reached the edge of the village and disappeared into the grain that topped her by several inches. Then, she turned back to the strangers. There were eight of them, and they were …
marching. Yes, that was the word. She had to dredge it up from an old memory of an even older story that Evan had told her when she was a very small girl—younger than Mary—and he was about to die. A sudden breeze blew at her back and chilled her. Rachel drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Michael and the rest of the villagers came up behind Rachel as she stood next to Jonathon and Kathleen’s house, the southernmost in the village. Everyone wanted to get a look at the newcomers. Michael put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder and smiled at her.

“What’s the afternoon brought us?”

“Visitors,” Rachel replied noncommittally.

“Mary told us they’re like ducks.” Michael untied his shirt from around his waste and pulled it over his head. “They’re not all that close, but I don’t see any feathers yet.” Everyone but Rachel laughed at Michael’s joke.

“What’s the matter Rachel? Why so serious?”

“I don’t know,” she said softy, “just an odd feeling.”

“Come, let’s greet these people and change them from strangers to friends.” With that he strode forward, drawing the village along. Rachel hung back and watched the meeting from behind William’s bulk, much like the children. These were the first strangers most of them had ever seen. They were understandably reticent. Michael walked right up to the lead man and extended his hand. “Welcome friends. I’m Michael, chairman of the village committee.”

The man he addressed stopped and looked Michael up and down in a way Rachel had never seen one man look at another. It reminded her of two dogs approaching each other for the first time. After a pause that seemed to stretch for a long time, the stranger reached out and took Michael’s hand, shaking it firmly in an unmistakable gesture. Rachel realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out as quietly as she could. This was all very, very strange.

“Hello, Michael. My name is Dieter. My companions and I have journeyed far. We’d like to stay here for a few days before we continue, if you’ll have us.” Dieter was tall and thin, by no means handsome. His face reminded Rachel of a horse’s, topped off with a thick, unruly shock of dark hair. It was a most unusual face, framing a pair of large, dark eyes. Those eyes shouted contradiction to his cheerful words.

“Of course, Dieter. We can always use extra hands at harvest time.”

“Thank you. This is Hans and Ernst and …” Rachel listened as each man was introduced. Michael shook their hands and passed them along to the crowd, for further acquaintance. He was so good at that type of thing, making people feel at ease, no matter the situation. But, of course, that’s why he was the chairman.

After a few minutes, Michael raised his voice and everyone politely stopped talking, “Friends! I know we’re a little behind in our harvest, but I wouldn’t be a very good chairman if I thought we’d get much accomplished out there today after this.” He paused for the laughter as those who hadn’t figured it already realized he was right as usual. “And, with this unexpected help the deficit will be more than erased tomorrow. So, I think I’ll move for a voice vote from the committee on setting a proper table for our guests as soon as we can manage. All in favor say aye.” Most of the village chorused "aye" along with the committee.

The villagers escorted the newcomers over to the hall, alternately asking them about their travels and filling them in on the community, the land hereabouts, what crops they had planted, how those were doing, what the weather had been this year … the normal conversational fare for farmers, simple but filling. At the steps to the hall, basins and pitchers of water were brought after a brief, and cheerfully tolerated, delay. First, the guests washed the dust of the long road from their hands and faces. Then, the harvesters did the best they could to scrub the fields from beneath their fingernails.

As the rest lined up to wash, Rachel ran and Jonathon hobbled around to the hall’s back door, the kitchen. This day was hers, Jonathon’s and Emma’s turn to prepare the evening meal, which is why they were in the village instead of out gathering the grain harvest when Dieter and his men had come over the hill. They found Emma, arms crossed, coolly surveying the state of their work as they entered the kitchen.

“So, they want dinner two hours early, and eight extra mouths to boot, do they? Hmm! Just see if I vote for Michael this coming spring,” she complained more to herself than the pair in the doorway. “Oh well, it can’t be helped. Rachel, child,” the plump gray haired woman gently grasped Rachel’s arm. “Be a dear and go to the storehouse. Fetch four jugs of cider. Get some of the others to help filling cups with it. That and the loaves of bread I just took out to cool should keep them busy until Jonathon and I can finish the soup. Now then, never mind peeling the rest of those potatoes, Jonathon …” Rachel missed out on the rest of the plan as she headed for the storehouse.

The children of the village were already bored with the newcomers, but with the innocent pragmatism of youth had decided that a celebration is a celebration and why waste it? They played a freeform running game in the open space in front of the hall. Rachel carried her burden from the storehouse through the swirling mass of villagers, wishing she could join in. She almost dropped two of the cider jugs coming into the noise-filled hall. At least it was a warm day and the double doors had been propped open. Ben, Joshua and Kathleen came to help Rachel with the beverages, each taking one and moving through the crowd. Others moved to the cabinets along one wall, returning with earthenware cups to hold the cider. Slowly, the voices died away as the cups were filled. Michael stepped to the front of the hall, a solemn look on his usually smiling face. He raised his cup to the simple line drawing of an old man with a flowing beard in an oaken frame, hung in a prominent place.

“Hear the words of the Teacher,” he intoned in a loud, clear voice.

The villagers answered him as one, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” The words spoken, everyone started talking at once again.

Rachel wove through the group, pouring cider, and unconsciously edging closer and closer to Michael and Dieter. The two men stood below the Teacher’s picture.

“This drawing is very good, Michael,” Dieter remarked. “One of you is quite the artist.”

“Was, I’m afraid. Robert's mother, he's over by the window there. She passed away must be two years ago. Three years before that, though, she walked five villages to the east to use their image of the Teacher - which is quite famous hereabouts - as a model for this drawing. Ours had been lost when the hall burned down that summer. In the right light, the eyes follow you as you move around the room.”

Dieter swayed to his left, then his right, “I believe you’re right, Michael.” The two laughed and downed the cider in their cups.

“Rachel! Just in time,” Michael held out his cup to be filled.

“That’s all you get, Michael.” She stopped pouring not halfway to the brim. “You sound as if you’ve had too much already,” Rachel teased with a little smile.

“Sound advice, friend. Here,” the chairman reached for the jug and handed Rachel his cup. “I’ll serve for a while. Besides,” he patted her on the arm, “I know you’re dying to talk to our new friends.” Michael craned to see over the crowd. “Oh! Duty calls. Looks like Samantha has cornered friend Hans. She’s probably telling him about her lumbago.”

Rachel and Dieter watched him go to Hans’ rescue. There followed an awkward little pause as they faced each other again. “Ahem,” Dieter broke the silence. “Now, why would a pretty young girl like you want to talk to a worn out old fellow like me?”

Rachel stared hard into Michael’s cup to hide the blush on her face. “You don’t look so old to me, friend Dieter.”

“Maybe I don’t look it, but I feel it.”

“You must have had a long journey.”

“Yes,” a strange look crossed the newcomer’s eyes, and was gone, “... very long.” He sipped his drink. “I’m sorry. Too long on the road, where are my manners? You were saying …”

“Oh, just that Michael knows - well everyone knows - that I’m curious . . . about things. I talk to travelers, when they come by. Oh, I know it’s frivolous, but I enjoy it. I hope you don’t think I’m silly.”

Dieter grinned so broadly that the lines on his forehead seemed to smile and soften the hardness of his eyes. “I don't think it's silly at all, Rachel.”

She returned the smile. “Tell me, did your journey take you near the sea? I can’t imagine enough water that you can’t even see across it.”

“Yes. In fact, we’ve crossed it.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. Before she could say anymore though, she heard Emma calling her from the kitchen door. “Oh, Teacher! I forgot all about the bread. I’m sorry. I have to go.” She thrust Michael’s cup at Dieter and dodged through the crowd to return to her duties. The traveler stood there in the midst of the villagers as if alone, with the oddest look of contentment on his weathered face.

Darkness slowly fell and deepened as Rachel, Jonathon and Emma finished, served and cleaned up after the communal meal. When the last dish was washed, dried and put away, Rachel wandered out to the main room to see Jonathon sweeping up and closing the double doors. She fought back a yawn. “Where is everyone?”

“Michael sent them all to bed, so we can get an early start in the morning. Fine by me. Makes sweeping easier.”

“Oh,” Rachel remarked distantly.

“You know Rachel, I’m glad we’ll be out in the fields again tomorrow.”

He stretched and moaned. “Sure, it’s more work than kitchen duty. But you get it over with first, and then get to sit down while somebody else brings you food.” He leaned the broom against a wall and yawned himself. “And, you’re not the last in the village to get to sleep.”

“Jonathon, you say the same thing every time we have this job!” Rachel regretted her sharp tone before the words were out of her mouth.

Her workmate limped closer in the dimly lit hall. “Are you feeling all right, Rachel?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Just tired, that’s all.”

“I’ll bet you are. Why don’t you go get some sleep? I’ll finish up here.”
She hesitated, then, “You’re a friend indeed, Jonathon. See you in the morning.” Rachel hugged him, and then headed out the back door.

The sun rose on the villagers in brilliant hues of red and gold as they shuffled sleepily along the dew-laden path to the north fields. A fine mist clung to hollows and low-lying areas. Michael and the committee discussed the plan for the day at the edge of where the work had stopped early the day before. The harvesters stretched and yawned, munching on the last of slabs of buttered bread passed out for breakfast. Talking in quiet voices that the dawn’s glow seemed to require, they sorted themselves out along the edge of the standing crop. Slowly at first, then falling effortlessly into a long familiar rhythm, men and women with scythes began reaping grain with swift, deliberate strokes. Methodically, they moved across the fields, littering the ground with fallen stalks. Others followed, gathering the golden harvest and tying it in sheaths that stood in neat rows to mark the progress until carted back to the village for threshing. Bringing up the rear, children made a game of gleaning the grains left behind.

The sun rose through the almost cloudless sky and the morning chill slowly evaporated with the mists. Long before midday the villagers started shedding their sweat-soaked shirts and donned broad straw hats to shield their heads from the sun. As they worked, Michael circulated among them providing guidance, encouragement and lending a hand where needed. A splash of color drew his eye to the path from the village, and he called a halt for the noon meal. Several people trotted up the path to help William and Kathleen pass around baskets holding fresh bread, cheese and fruits, followed by jugs of water. Refreshed by the light meal, the workers started again.

The long autumn afternoon dragged on.

“Dieter,” Michael called as he walked up behind the traveler, “you did well today. You wield that scythe like you were born with it in your hands.” Villagers filtered by them, headed back to the dining hall in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The newcomer stood facing the other way, staring off across the fields at a distant hill.

Dieter smiled as he tuned and glanced down at the tool he leaned on. “In a way I was. Just like riding a bicycle, I suppose. The body never forgets.”

“Riding a what?” Michael’s brow wrinkled at the unfamiliar word.

“Oh, nothing, I just used to be a farmer, a long time ago.”

“From what I’ve seen, you still are.” They stood side by side, enjoying the sight of the nearly complete harvest for a moment. “What were you looking at before I interrupted you?”

“Those ruins on the hill; they look very old.”

“They are, from before the time of the Teacher. We don’t pay them much mind.” Michael swiveled his head, scanning the departing villagers.

“Rachel! Come over here please.” Rachel handed her tool to another and walked up to the pair rather tentatively. “Dieter was asking about the ruins on the big hill. Did old Evan ever tell you anything about them?”
“Yes, he knew quite a bit about the place. I think he might have even lived there once.”

“Really?” Michael blinked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, I’m not sure. He never came out and said so. It was just the way he talked about the place, like it was a long lost home.”

“I’d like to see them sometime,” Dieter smiled at Rachel, “when you have time, if you don’t mind.”

“I have time right now, Dieter.”

“I don’t want to keep you from dinner, and you must be tired.”

“I feel fine, and I didn’t eat all of my lunch.” She held up a bundle tied up in a light colored cloth. “I’ll share it with you.”

Dieter chuckled and held out his hand. “Now, how could I refuse such an offer?”

Rachel took it and they struck off across the half-harvested field, deliberately not looking at each other. Michael watched them, until he heard a scuffling behind him. Upon turning, he saw Jonathon there with a wry expression on his old face.

“Many and varied are the duties and tasks of a good chairman, friend Michael.”

“Indeed they are, friend Jonathon. Indeed they are.” The chairman glanced back over his shoulder at the departing couple. “And some are most pleasing to the heart.” With an arm around Jonathon’s shoulders, Michael headed to the evening meal.

Rachel led Dieter to the top of the big hill, past the ring of rusted metal poles and through the ruins there. Evan’s words for the structures came back with difficulty, then in a flood: administration, barracks, armory, mess hall, watch tower and powerhouse. She named them off and pointed them out, hardly more than foundations and isolated portions of walls standing here and there. On the other side of the hill Rachel sat down under a tree, and unwrapped the remains of her lunch. Dieter dropped cross-legged beside her, looking back at the ruins. She handed him bread and cheese. They ate in silence for a while, watching the setting sun turn the sky golden then rose, then a gradually darkening azure.

“Hmm,” Dieter glanced at her then down to the earth. He reached down and pulled a handful from beneath the stalks of wild grain they sat in. He rolled a callused thumb through it, savoring the rich black color and inhaling its heavy odor. The traveler squeezed his hand tightly and sifted it through sun-browned fingers. “This is excellent soil, much better than closer to the village. Almost anything would grow here.” He snagged a nearby stalk and examined it closely. “In fact, the seeds for this probably blew up here from below.”

“No, Evan told me that they grew grain here many years ago.”

“Why no longer?” He stared at the earth in his palm. “It’s a shame to waste soil this rich.” Dieter shook his head, smiling wistfully. “If my father had had land this good … well, my life would have been different. And here it lies idle.” The rest of the soil dribbled through his fingers.

Rachel reached out tentatively and cupped Dieter’s right hand in hers. Smaller fingers brushed dirt from his palm. “Your hand isn’t the same as others I’ve known, not soft but hard in a different way.”

Of its own accord, Dieter’s other hand rose to hold Rachel’s. His thumb traced the lines on her palm. She leaned forward, gently cupped his stubbled chin and kissed the surprised expression on his face.

Hesitantly, Dieter rose to his knees and enfolded the girl in his arms, ready to retract at the first hint of protest. Sinuously, Rachel molded herself to the traveler, burying her head in the hollow of his neck. He felt the smooth curves of her back through the simple linen blouse and freed her raven-black hair from the colorful cloth that bound it. Dieter drank in its heady aroma like a man dying of thirst.

Later, the lovers clung to each other in the warm, early-autumn night, watching the stars wheel slowly above. Dieter closed his eyes and strained to reach out to the woman next to him with as many senses as he could. Rachel’s soft fingertips were entangled in his chest hair and tugged gently with the rhythm of his breathing. The faint wind of her breath stirred in his ears. Her taste lingered on his lips. Her scent, a mixture of earth and grain and sun-warmed flesh, filled his nostrils. Systematically, Dieter filed them away in his memory, fixing the moment for the long, cold nights to come.

Rachel spoke in hushed tones, lips brushing his throat. “You’re soldiers, aren’t you?”

Dieter started as if she’d poked him with something sharp. With an effort, he relaxed again, settling back into the embrace she’d refused to release. “Now that, Rachel, is a word I thought had long vanished from this world.” A hand absently stroked her thick, black hair. “Yes, we were soldiers, once … a long, long time ago. I’m not sure what we are now.” A night bird sang in the tree. “What did Evan tell you of soldiers, Rachel?”

“That they walk along in very straight rows. Marching, he called it. That’s how I knew you were soldiers. I’ve never seen anyone do that before.”
Dieter shook his head and laughed softly, “I didn’t even realize we were doing it. Old habits die hard, don’t they? And I suspect this kind and gentle place has made us careless. This Evan sounds like he was an interesting fellow.”

“He was brought here when he was very young, to the ruins, or what they used to be. Maybe by his parents, he didn’t say. The place was full of soldiers, always running around, always scared. Then, one day someone put him in a dark hole in the ground. There were loud noises and the ground shook. After a while, someone else opened the lid to the hole and pulled him out. The soldiers were all gone and the people who would build the village were here instead. They told him that the soldiers were bad and spoke to him the words of the Teacher. When I was very young and he was waiting to die, we’d sit under this tree and he’d tell me of things that, until yesterday, I had thought only he knew. He was my great grandfather.”

Dieter felt her hot tears on his chest.

They held hands all the way back to the village, then Dieter embraced her for a long moment before heading towards the house Michael had assigned to the travelers. Someone sat on the front steps, a pipe hanging from his teeth as he watched the moon rise in the sky.

“Why do you insist on gnawing that thing? We ran out of tobacco months ago.” Dieter lowered himself to the stoop beside his old friend.
Hans simply continued to stare at the sky and said, “Stuttgart, nineteen forty three.”

“Which nineteen forty three?”

“The first one.”

“Oh, that one,” Dieter shook his head as memories flooded forth involuntarily. “What about it?”

“That, friend Dieter, was the last time I saw that particular look on your homely face. And might I add, it’s about Goddamn time.”

“Well, unlike you Hans, I am usually able to control my urges when someone twitches her tail at me.”

“A weakness I have always overlooked because of our friendship.” They shared a smile in the darkness. “What was her name? I can never remember their names.”

Dieter arched an eyebrow at his comrade. “Her name was Ursula, and I was hopelessly in love with her … for three days anyway.”

“Too bad she wasn’t in love with you. Then her husband showed up.”

Dieter emitted a short little bark of a laugh and then sobered in the moonlight. “Looks like the Reactionaries made a fairly stubborn last stand up on the hilltop. There are the remains of a barbwire perimeter and an interconnected bunker system, smashed to hell and gone. By artillery I’d say.”

“Well, you’ve seen enough of that type of thing to know. What did Rachel say about it?”

“She told me a patchy story her grandfather passed on to her. She’s probably the only one that knows anything about it.” A minute of silence stretched between them. Dieter continued, “The locator was buzzing like a bee in my pocket the whole way up there. I sneaked a peek at it when she wasn’t looking. The gate will open at the north edge of the bunker complex an hour before sunrise two days from now.”

“Not a minute too soon for me, Sergeant Laufer. I can’t wait to get off of this timeline.”

“I don’t know, Hans. It’s not such a bad place. Look at these people. They’re so open. I've never seen anyone so happy and at peace with the world. These past few months, trekking from the last gate have been like a holiday.” Dieter leaned his head back against the rough-planed wooden siding of the guest house and closed his eyes. “Considering what’s waiting on the other side of this gate, I’m surprised you’re anxious to leave.”

“These people, this timeline, just piss me off. That’s all.”

Dieter opened his eyes and looked at his friend. “I can see that. It’s been rather obvious since a few days after we got here."

Minutes passed in silence.

“You’re not planning on going through the gate when it appears, are you, Dieter?”

“I’m tired Hans, so very tired. This place. This woman. It’s like an answer to a prayer. I want to lay down with Rachel each night without a care in the world, and sleep for years.” He folded his arms on his knees and laid his head down.

“What about our employers?”

“What about them?” Dieter spat the question out like a mouthful of sour wine. “They can go to the devil, or come here and beg me on hands and knees. I’ve done more than enough of their dirty work."

“How long have you been planning this, Dieter?”

“Since we came to this world, but it’s been on my mind for a while.” He straightened up to let the night wind blow on his face. “How long has it been since our benevolent masters stumbled upon us? How many timelines have we been through since they pulled us out of that frozen nightmare on the steppe, with the Soviet tanks hunting us down? Subjective time, that is.”

“Now that’s a question. I don’t know. Years don’t have any meaning to us. I tried to count the days in a little notebook I used to carry. I stopped counting when I ran out of pages, and that was a long time ago.”

That's just it, Hans. Years don't have meaning to us. We're nothing but tools to them. They've changed us so we don't age. They fix us when we're broken. I want to be human again." Dieter reached out to his friend. Stay here with me, Hans. They can't force us to go. It'll be years before they even notice."

“No, Dieter, I can’t, not here.” Hans put his pipe into a pocket.

"What's wrong with this place?”

Hans considered his friend in the moonlight. “Tell me Dieter, what have you seen since we stepped through that last gate?”

“I’ve seen the happiest place I’ve ever been, or could imagine. There’s no war here, no poverty. All of the ills of mankind have been washed away. It’s paradise.”

“Paradise? No. I’ve seen a world dying, cities abandoned and turning to rust and dust. A shrinking population.” Hans fell silent as clouds drifted across the moon, and then went on, softly as if talking to himself. “It shouldn’t be like this, but here it is. Marx’s vision realized completely. A world free from hate, from want, at peace … such a terrible peace.”
Dieter did not talk as his comrade bared his soul.

“People are funny, Dieter. Make them struggle. Make them suffer. Better yet, give them something to hate. They will strive. They will persevere. Christ, how they’ll surprise you with their ingenuity and their drive!”

Hans stood and gazed at the sleeping village. “But, give them peace and happiness,” he shook his head, sadly, “and they will stop striving. For what’s the point?” The night surrounded the pair for a few heartbeats. Crickets chirped. “Did you notice that drawing of Marx in the dining hall?”

“Yes,” Dieter replied. “There’s one in every village.”

“They pray to it.”

“No. They repeat some of his words before a meal. That’s not praying.”

“Isn’t it?” Hans asked, as he stepped past his friend to the door of the guest house. He paused, his hand on the knob. “In a few generations they’ll be sacrificing chickens to that image. I don’t want to be around to see that.”

Hans went inside and closed the door behind him. Dieter sat alone on the steps, gazing at the moon in all its glory.

Two days later the afternoon sun shone pleasantly through Dieter’s closed eyelids and warmed his bones enough to lull him into a drowsy half-sleep. Something lightly touched his nose. He reached up and brushed it away. The fuzzy thing returned, causing him to blow out through his nose and start to roll over.

“Wake up!” Rachel teased, shaking him gently and dropping the wildflower she’d been tickling him with.

Dieter opened his eyes and smiled up at her. Sunlight showed through the dark halo of her hair. They embraced. “What a nice way to wake up.”

“You snore!” she giggled.

“Sorry.”

“Oh, I think I could get used to it.”

That comment, and all it implied, drifted between them for a moment or two. The pair gazed out from the crest of the hill that was home to the ruined Reactionary compound. With the extra hands, the harvest had gone well enough to allow the entire village to take the day off.

“Rachel, there’s a few things you should know about me.” Dieter reached out to bend a stalk of wild grain over enough to touch its neighbor. An insect crawled from the one plant to the next.

She silenced her lover with a finger to his lips. “I know all I need to.” Several minutes later Rachel sighed. “Jonathon will need my help in the kitchen soon.”

“Are you still on that duty? I thought someone else had it today.”

“Emily is sick. She’ll fill in for me some other time.”

Dieter lay back in the wild grain and watched Rachel dress. The westering sun turned her skin golden, revealed red highlights in her black hair and seemed to make her shine with an inner glow. Rachel’s body was not perfect. Few things in this world or any other are, Dieter mused. But, Rachel’s heart was perfect, or closer to perfect than any ever opened to him.

“Coming?”

“In a while. I like the sunsets from up here.” Dieter winked.

Rachel tilted her head in a dubious gesture that Dieter found most fetching. “All right, see you at dinner.”

When his lover was most of the way down the hill Dieter rose and made his way into the ruins. On the far side of a mostly collapsed concrete wall, Hans sat, chewing on his empty pipe. The locator lay open in his lap. In the upper left of its crowded display screen numbers counted down towards zero.

“The gate will open there.” His sour friend jabbed a pipe stem at the ragged stump of what might have been a flag pole or a telephone pole several paces away. “One hour and twelve minutes before dawn, tonight.”

“Don’t you mean tomorrow?”

"Tonight, tomorrow, whatever you care to call it, when the time comes, our doorway to the next timeline will open and will stay open for about eleven minutes.” Hans continued to study the locator, “Will you be here, Dieter?”

“No, I won’t.”

“The next gate won’t open on this timeline for seventy-two years, sixty-three hundred kilometers to the southeast.” Hans held out the device to Dieter to show him the details.

His friend turned to watch the sunset instead. “I’d never find it without the locator, even if I wanted to try."

Hans closed the locator with a snap and rose to his feet.

“Hans, please understand.”

“Oh, I do understand, better than anyone else. Maybe even better than you, Dieter. And, that’s the saddest part.” With a visible effort, Hans reached out his hand, “Good luck old friend.”

“We haven’t parted yet.”

“Not physically, no.”

“Then let’s go drink a bit of that God-awful cider, eh?”

“It is God-awful. How are you going to stand that stuff the rest of your life?”

“Guess I’ll just have to teach them how to brew beer.”

“That’ll be a neat trick, since you’ll have to teach yourself first,” Hans teased.

Both men laughed. “Do you remember that time,” Dieter asked as they turned towards the path down the hill, “we had to get those Mongols drunk?”

“Ach, I'm still hung over from that.”

They strolled into the darkness of the hill’s shadow, trading memories.

It was a full minute after entering the dining hall before Hans realized what was giving him such a bad feeling. No one would meet his eyes. He had not exactly made friends with anyone during their stay in the village, during their stay in this timeline, truth be told. The one thing that distinguished this timeline from pretty much all the others, however, was the frank openness and honesty of everyone here. It gave him the creeps. Suddenly that was gone, and it took a little while for Hans to recognize the return of what had been normal human behavior for most of his life.

Dieter had just returned from the kitchen, “Hans, I was going to talk Rachel into letting us have some of that cider, but I can’t find her.” His voice wasn’t concerned, just apologetic.

“Dieter.”

“I guess we’ll just have to say goodbye sober.”

“Dieter!” Hans’s voice was a soft, but insistent whisper. “Look around you.”

Dieter’s eyes cast about the large room. The smile slowly fell away from his face to be replaced by a grimmer expression that seemed to be more at home there. People were looking at the pair of outsiders near the double doors, but would avert their gaze as Dieter fixed upon them. On a New York City street or in a Berlin bar such conduct would be totally unremarkable. Here, it made the hair on the back of Dieter’s neck stiffen.

Dieter’s focus finally settled on Chairman Michael, at the head table flanked by members of the village committee. Michael stared back at him, because it was his job not to look away. The expression on the chairman’s face turned a switch in Dieter’s head, and he began flipping through the possible explanations for the limited facts he had on hand. Not surprisingly, none of the conclusions he reached were at all palatable.

“Gather the men. Wait for me outside,” Dieter spoke quietly, maintaining eye contact with Michael. The ring of command had returned to his voice, not a moment too soon as Hans viewed it.

Hans disappeared out the double doors. Dieter strode up the aisle between the tables to where Michael awaited.

“Where is Rachel?” he demanded, all pretense of civility gone.

“Rachel has left our village,” Michael replied evenly, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

Dieter absorbed that information before continuing. “Where has she gone?”

“This is an internal matter. Not your concern.”

Dieter was not more than peripherally aware that his hands had curled into fists, his stance had shifted slightly, and his eyes had rapidly assessed the physical sizes and, more importantly, the mental state of the nearest of the villagers. “I will ask once more. Where is Rachel?”

Michael opened his mouth to reply, his eyes hardening.

“Peter took her,” Jonathon interrupted, holding open the door to the kitchen.

“Jonathon, shut up and get back to your kitchen,” Michael shouted.

Jonathon shook his head. He pulled off his stained apron, wiped his hands on it and threw it angrily to the floor.

“Who is Peter?” Dieter asked of Jonathon.

“He was expelled from the community seven years ago,” Jonathon spoke as he limped over to stand between Dieter and Michael.

“You are close to joining him, Jonathon,” the chairman threatened.

Jonathon ignored Michael. “He comes back now and then, for food, clothes. He and six other outcasts, from other villages, showed up this afternoon. They were leaving just as Rachel came into the village. This time, they took her, too.”

Dieter looked around the room. “And you just let them?”

“I didn’t,” Jonathon replied. Now that he was closer, Dieter saw the angry red lump on Jonathon’s forehead.

Dieter felt as if the earth was shifting under his feet, but it wasn’t really, just his perception of it.

“I’m going after her,” Dieter said to no one in particular as he strode for the door.

“This is a purely internal matter!” Michael bleated from the head table. “Rachel provided what she is able for the community’s need.”

Dieter stopped with the door half open to look back at the chairman. He was surprised to find Jonathon a step or two behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“With you, of course. You can’t expect me to stay here,” Jonathon retorted.

“You’ll slow us down.”

“A bit, but I grew up in these hills. I could travel them in my sleep. And, I know just where Peter is going. Do you?”

Dieter considered the offer for a brief moment and then beckoned him outside with a tense jerk of his head. Behind them, Michael sputtered on briefly. He looked to his committee for support, but no one would meet his eyes.

Hans had the men lined up at the foot of the steps to the dining hall. They were armed, after a fashion, with scythes, pitchforks, butcher knives. Half a dozen men from the village huddled nervously behind them, similarly armed. Jonathon smiled at that, a guilty pride obviously swelling his stooped form.

People are like that, a small part of Dieter’s mind reflected. They’ll stand by and watch the most horrific things happen without lifting a finger, simply because their neighbors wouldn’t either. But, let one man step forward, take the risk and lead. Then they’ll follow that man to hell, regardless of his intentions. Why? Out of … gratitude?

“The boys just came back from the river,” Hans volunteered as Dieter stepped into the dust of the square. “They were swimming.”

Dieter nodded to Hans, inwardly relieved of one doubt. He’d been wondering how this could have happened with his men around. Hans had been wondering as well.

“What’s up, Sergeant?” Metzger, standing next to Hans, asked. The wolfish fire in his eye made it clear he didn’t really care about the details. He just reveled in the ability to openly carry a weapon again. That was just the way Metzger was and always had been, a born soldier. Perhaps warrior was a better description, for Metzger was not all that good a soldier.

Dieter was not a born warrior. It was simply a role that fate had forced upon him. Fortunately, he had found he had a talent for the job, which he was reluctantly compelled to develop. He was much more dangerous than Metzger as a result.

“Bandits have abducted Rachel,” Dieter addressed the rescue party. “We’re going to get her back. We’re going to leave right now, move fast and it will not be pleasant when we catch up with them.” This last part was directed at the villagers who apparently wanted to come along. The locals glanced at each other nervously, but none left.

“All right,” Dieter turned to Jonathon. “You know where they're headed. We’ll follow you.”

Jonathon seemed to grow in stature as he nodded and led the band north in the gathering dusk. By unspoken agreement the group moved at something approaching a dead run.

Several hundred yards down the path, Dieter realized he was just wearing himself and his companions out to no good purpose and eased the pace back to a fast walk. “Where are we headed?” he asked of Jonathon, without breaking stride.

“The big hill with the ruins on top. They’ll make for there, spend the night and move further north in the morning.”

“Wait a minute. Hans and I were just there. If they’re headed that way, why didn’t we run into them on our way back?”

“Because Peter’s too smart to stay on the path. They left the village heading east, but they’ll circle around and go to the big hill.”

“You seem awfully sure of this. How well do you know this Peter?”

“Well enough. He’s my son.”

That piece of news did cause Dieter to break stride.

The rescue party strung themselves out behind Jonathon’s limping form in the last light of the dying day. The desperate race to the ruins seemed to take but a few minutes, although the moon followed its path across a noticeable portion of the sky before they approached the top of the hill.

Before the last turn of the path brought the ruins into sight, Dieter stepped to the front of the column and slowed progress to a crawl. He peered cautiously through a screen of brush at the old Reactionary compound.

“They’re not there yet,” Jonathon whispered. “Peter won’t expect us to come after him. They’d have a campfire going if they were here.”

Dieter weighed the old man’s opinion and the risks of believing him. “All right. Hans, put Metzger and two men from the village behind that wall.” Swiftly, with a business-like detachment, Dieter and his men prepared the ambush. Dieter stood where Jonathon indicated the bandits would appear and surveyed the results, satisfied that none of his men or the accompanying men from the village apprenticed into violence was visible. He walked over to where Hans and Jonathon crouched halfway down what was once a stairway to a basement.

“How much time, Jonathon?” Dieter asked as he slipped past his comrades and found a vantage place in the open pit of the ruined basement, his eyes level with the ground.

“Not long. Ten minutes? Less than half an hour.”

“Hmm. Why will Peter come here?”

“Does it matter?"

“It might.”

Jonathon sighed wearily and rested his forehead against the cool concrete of a step. “This is where Peter did something terrible, horrible. What that act was … is not important. It involved Rachel, and it’s why I have this limp. It’s why I am no longer chairman of the village, because I banished my only child.”

“Who are you, Dieter?” Jonathon whispered his head still cradled on the ancient step. “What are you?”

A warm breeze blew across the hill top. Hans and Dieter shared an exchange of glances.

“Do you know what a soldier is, Jonathon?”

“Yes. A chairman must know about things, to guard against their return.”

Dieter chuckled softly. “You need not worry about us. We are just passing through.”

“From where? To where?”

“From another past. To another future,” Hans interjected.

Before Dieter could speak there was a movement at the edge of the hill. The pale moonlight showed a tall, muscular man climbing the path, pulling Rachel along with a large hand around her wrist. Half a dozen other men followed them into view.

Rachel stumbled as Peter jerked her along. She fell to her knees, and Peter dragged her a few steps before flinging her hand aside in disgust. Dieter found himself preparing to spring from concealment as Jonathon placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“Let me try to talk to him,” Jonathon whispered.

“Do you think it will do any good?”

“No, but he is my son. I must try.”

With great effort, Dieter nodded agreement. Jonathon rose and climbed the steps to ground level. Loose stones clattered from the wall at the top of the steps as Jonathon steadied himself. Peter spun around at the unexpected sound. He’d been talking to one of his companions, a rather inoffensive looking fellow until one got a look at his eyes.

A broad smile spread across Peter’s face. “Still haven’t had enough, old man?” His voice was surprisingly high pitched for such a large man. “Back for another lesson?”

“I’ve come to take Rachel home,” Jonathon declared as he limped to within a few paces of the outcasts.

The prodigal son threw his head back and laughed at the sky. “Did you now, old man? Did you? Well, you shouldn’t have bothered. I’m taking Rachel home with me, back into exile.”

“Peter, don’t make this any worse than it already is.”

The smile faded from Peter’s face. “And how could I do that, old man? How could things possibly get any worse?”

“I’d listen to him, if I were you, Peter.” Dieter spoke from the top of the stairs, his tone conversational.

“Dieter! No! Run!” Rachel sobbed from the ground at Peter’s feet.

Peter glanced down at his captive and then up to study Dieter. “Ah,” he sighed as if sliding into a warm bath. “I knew something had changed. I sensed it in her as soon as I saw her today. That’s why I took her.”

From the surrounding ruins Dieter’s men stepped forward silently. None but Metzger revealed any emotion. Metzger’s face bore an easy smile. His eyes blazed with an almost sexual intensity. The men from the village were a step or two behind. They gripped their makeshift weapons with nervous hands and watched the outcasts with fear in their eyes.
The raiders drew knives and clubs, turned to face the enemy, calculated odds and shot nervous glances at their leader. “Pete, let’s go,” one of them hissed.

“We’ll go when I say so, with Rachel.”

“She’s just a woman.”

“She’s my woman! And I’ll kill her before I let another man have her!”

“Seems to me she’s her own woman,” Dieter said as he stepped around Jonathon and stopped a couple of paces from Peter.

For a long moment no one moved or made a sound. Eyes danced and hearts raced in the bright moonlight. Then, slowly, Peter pulled a knife. It held only a passing resemblance to the butcher knife Hans quickly passed to Dieter. Peter’s knife was two feet long and heavy. It sported patches of rust and a bulbous fitting at the end away from the handle. The thing had apparently once been part of some kind of cutting machine. Peter’s weapon was more of sharpened metal cudgel than a knife.

“Come on, stranger man. We both know why we’re here.”

“Gladly,” Dieter replied in an even, unemotional tone as he crouched and circled to the left.

Dieter’s demeanor should have been Peter’s first clue, but the big man didn’t pick up on it. He still didn’t realize who, or rather what, he was dealing with.

With a growl, Peter raised his knife/club and dashed forward to smash it down on Dieter’s head, or where Dieter’s head had been. The soldier had lightly danced out of the way, reaching out to slash at Peter’s ribs as the two opponents passed each other. Peter was several paces away before he could check his momentum. He turned to survey the scene, a hand rubbing a gap in the fabric of his shirt, his mouth a thin, angry line. Dieter stood on his toes with feet shoulder width apart, leaning forward. Blood dripped from his blade, black in the moonlight.

Jonathon scooped Rachel up and dragged her to the base of a weed-covered stone wall. Rachel began to moan softly as he held her there.
“I was gonna kill you quick. Not now, boy. Not now.” As he spoke, Peter began to shuffle forward, determined not to let Dieter skip past him again.

Dieter frustrated that effort by circling to the right instead of waiting for Peter to get close enough to reach him. Peter slowly chased Dieter around the clearing for a few minutes, then Dieter jumped forward and feinted an overhand jab. Peter raised his heavy blade to block and Dieter slashed his knife across the big man’s forearm. Peter bellowed in pain and quickly transferred his weapon to his uninjured left hand. Dieter was out of reach before Peter was ready to retaliate.

Again, Peter contemplated his opponent for a moment. This was not turning out like the fights he’d had before. His size alone had deterred most of his rivals within the band of outcasts from challenging him. Whether he used intimidation or violence to win those battles that did occur was more determined by his mood at the time than any rational thought. Up to now, simply being bigger, stronger and meaner had been quite enough. Dieter, evidently, was something else altogether. It had never occurred to Peter that skill could be just as important as strength and size, if not more so, until now.

“Last chance, Peter,” Dieter cautioned from across the clearing. “You and your men leave now, or next time I won’t just bleed you. I’ll kill you.”

The warning did not have the intended effect. Not only did it anger Peter, but in the back of his mind the leader of the raiders realized that his standing among his outcasts would suffer a fatal blow if he retreated now. Perhaps they wouldn’t challenge him directly. However, soon enough, they’d slip away in ones and twos, by the dark of night. Soon enough, he’d be alone again.

With a roar, Peter charged, blade/club before him and angled forward. This time, though, Dieter didn’t spare the big man by dancing aside and scratching him. Dieter ducked under Peter’s weapon and brought the butcher knife up and into his gut, just below the ribcage.

Peter stopped as if he’d run into a brick wall. The heavy blade fell from his outstretched hand. It hit the ground with an ugly thump. To the surrounding men and Rachel it looked as if the two were embracing. Peter’s arms extended out over Dieter’s shoulders. Dieter’s left arm curled around Peter’s back. His right hand held the knife deep in his enemy’s abdomen.

Peter wore a look of utter disbelief on his face. He inhaled sharply once, twice, three times and then slid limply to the earth. The outcast rolled over and came to rest on his side, sightless eyes staring beseechingly at Rachel.

Rachel moaned. Her eyes shut tight to deny the futile plea on Peter's face. She began to shiver as Jonathon held her to his chest.

One and then a second of the villagers staggered a few steps away from the scene and retched on the ground. Other village men simply stared at Peter’s body in shock, as the thirsty earth drank the dark blood of a man they had grown up with. One villager seemed unaffected. Like the soldiers, he watched the other outcasts and held his pitchfork with a steady grip.

Without quite realizing it themselves, the outcasts had been slowly edging away from the fight since Dieter had drawn first blood. Now, by unspoken consensus, they turned and fled down the hill and into the night. None spared a backwards glance for Peter.

“What a pity,” Metzger muttered in disappointment as he tossed his borrowed scythe upon the ground.

“Rachel?” Dieter knelt in front of his love. “Rachel, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Reality came rushing back to Rachel as she focused on Dieter’s concerned face.

“You … butchered him, like he was … some kind of … animal!” She struggled to speak in between shuddering sobs.

“Rachel love,” Dieter said, shaken by the truth in the words. He reached out to her with a bloodstained hand.

Rachel screamed and backed away from her lover until she fetched up against a pile of rubble, terror in her large, round eyes. “Stay away from me! You’re an animal. You’re worse than an animal!”

The soldier rose to his feet slowly, wearily. He wanted to go to Rachel, to hold her, to tell her why he was the way he was and explain how different his world was from this gentle place. But, he did not. He knew it would do no good. It never did. Behind him, he felt the eyes of the other villagers upon his back. They were edging away from Dieter’s men, as if the soldiers would suddenly sprout horns.

A short time later, the men of the village had led an unresponsive Rachel back down the path to home. Only Jonathon remained, standing over and contemplating the body of his son.

Dieter and Hans approached. “I’m,” Dieter stammered, “sorry, Jonathon. I tried …”

“Yes, you did. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have backed down, not if you’d wounded him a hundred times. That’s the way he always was.” Jonathon raised his eyes to Dieter. They were eyes far too sad to shed tears. “It’s not your fault, Dieter. You are a good man, much better a man than I have been.”

Jonathon sank to his knees and reached out to close his son’s eyes. “I will go home and fetch a shovel. It’s fitting he be buried up here. He belongs to our best-forgotten past. As do you, soldiers.”

Suddenly, everyone on the hilltop felt the hair on the back of their necks stiffen. A dozen paces away, a small blue dot appeared about the height of a man’s heart above the ground. It rapidly expanded to a pale blue sphere, taller than a man, static electrical discharge roving its surface in random patterns.

Jonathon stared at the gate mute, numb.

“We are travelers,” Dieter said softly. “Far travelers.”

“Eighty some years ago the brand-new Soviet Union was at war with Poland,” Hans spoke up.

Jonathon tore his gaze away from the gate. “Yes, what has that got to do with this?” He swept a hand at the blue sphere.

“Everything,” Hans smiled a sad smile. “In your history, the Polish commander died in an automobile accident the night before the battle of Warsaw. The Soviets won the war. With Germany bordered by a communist Poland, revolution erupted in Berlin and spread rapidly. The rest of Europe fell to the revolution within ten years. The world was communist in another twenty five.” Hans chuckled. “And then the most amazing thing happened. The worldwide communist state actually withered away, just as Marx said it would.”

“Well, of course it did,” Jonathon replied impatiently, and then glanced at the gate. Doubt crept like a shadow across his face.

“In our history—Dieter’s and mine—General Pilsudsky survived that accident and won the Russo-Polish war the next morning. Because of that, a man named Stalin, not Trotsky, succeeded Lenin as the leader of the Soviet Union. Stalin was a madman. It took a long time, but communism finally collapsed under the weight of his legacy.”

“In your history?”

“In our history.”

Jonathon stole a glance at the gate again.

Dieter stared at the path where he'd had his last glimpse of Rachel. He reluctantly accepted that he'd murdered his chance of escape along with Peter. Hans was by his side, the look on his face told Dieter that Hans had already figured that out.

Hans pulled the locator from his pocket and somewhat ceremoniously handed it back to Dieter. “I’ll get the men ready to go.”

Dieter took comfort from the cool, smooth metal of the device before he slipped it into a pocket.

Jonathon watched the soldiers file into the static-trimmed blue sphere one by one, until only Dieter remained.

“I’m sorry, Jonathon. I … I just don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”

Dieter gazed at the setting moon for a moment before following his command. A short time later the sphere shrank rapidly to an intense pinpoint and vanished. Jonathon stood beside his dead son for a while, and then went to the village to fetch a shovel.

Ray Tabler is a chemical engineer who was born and raised in Louisville , Kentucky . He moved to the frozen wilds of Michigan due to a tragic addiction to a steady paycheck, married a Yankee girl, is now stuck there and happy. Links to his other published fiction can be found here.