To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Five: Raphael

       Carl had started a fire and was checking the supply wagon when Rebecca awoke. Soon venison was roasting, filling the glade with its aroma.

       He wiped moss from a log so they could sit to eat. They sat, quiet, conscious of the naked trees and the Chestnut which could be seen through the wet black trunks, grabbing their eyes with its mantle of green leaves, leaves that still were bright with their summer gloss. For the moment, they ignored the implications of the tree.

       "A cup of coffee would go well now, or perhaps even tea," Carl wished between bites. "I wonder what these people use for a hot drink?"

       "Probably nothing, unless it's a local concoction made from roots. I remember my grandmother telling how her parents used certain roots like a tea. She was raised in the countryside." Then Rebecca brightened. "I forgot! There's tea and coffee in the supplies wagon."

       Soon they were enjoying a hot brew.

       Rebecca could no longer ignore the Chestnut. "Have you thought about where we are in time," she asked, "and what it means to live before you were born? I've tried not to dwell on it, but it's beginning to drive me batty."

       She wasn't alone. "I haven't picked up any clues," he said, "because we haven't seen anybody up close. If we saw towns or cities we'd be able to get a good fix, especially if we were near York or London. But this area was very late to develop, so even if there aren't villages around here it may still be in Roman times."

       He warmed to the subject. "If we run into Roman soldiers, that would be our best fix, or if it's later than the Romans, perhaps Saxons or Normans, we could tell from them. That would be interesting, to be sent into a period of time I've studied so thoroughly, but if the dress of the women is a marker, it's much earlier than that."

       "You told me to pray to my patron saint yesterday when we were trying to get the lorry upright. I suddenly realized that the man who was my patron saint may not have lived yet, much less been declared a saint. How do you pray to someone who doesn't exist, except in your mind?" She paused, stunned by another thought. "There may not be a Pope, or Church." She was silenced by the implications.

       "That's an awesome idea," he said, picking up on the thought. "What happens if Jesus hasn't been born, if we predate the Christ? We believe he's one with God, so he's always existed, but if he hasn't existed yet as Jesus. If the Christ is still just an idea in Jewish eschatology, it completely changes theology . . . even my theology."

       "Jewish eskatalogee?"

       "Sorry. It's the end times, in this case the coming of the Messiah." Then he expressed to himself thoughts he had anxiously excluded. Can Jesus by the Christ if time travel is possible? Can we truly change history by going back into time? If so, God isn't sovereign.

       A deep funk enveloped both of them. Their whole world was inverted, like a popcorn bowl brushed from a table. Those things that gave tangible meaning to life were literally wiped out. Their parents would hear of their deaths, or disappearances, then go on with their own lives, except that was impossible for their parents hadn't been born yet. Does time coexist at all levels?

       Carl stirred the fire, loath to move. "Have you ever traveled across the International Dateline?" He stared into the fire, not even having the energy to look up.

       "No, I've never left the UK, so I've always been in Greenwich time."

       "It always struck me odd that I could be in Hong Kong in the morning on a Wednesday, for instance, but it was Tuesday evening on the West Coast. All of us were living at the same time in different places on the planet, yet we lived in different days and hours. It helped me to understand how God could see the beginning from the end. He's got a universe billions of miles across with time zones that won't quit. People can be living at the same time, from God's perspective, but not from ours."

       Rebecca laughed, but without mirth.

       He continued. "I try not to think about it because my mind can't grasp the implications. We're living in one time yet we were born in a time that won't exist for maybe a thousand or more years." He paused, then stood up. His voice strengthened. "It's speculation. We can't know yet when we live." He changed the subject. "How's the rib?"

       "It's still sore, but it's beginning to itch, so I think the healing process has started. I don't think anything was broken or cracked."

       "Let me see."

       "Is this a medical visit, or something else?"

       "You know I love you, that hasn't changed!" Then a thought occurred. "My love has already lasted several centuries." A wry smile split his face, reopening the lip. "It's you and me kid. We're all we've got."

       She laughed. "Seems I heard that on the telly once, but of course that couldn't be, television hasn't been invented yet."

       Carl took her hands, his finger touching the ring. "If I'm going to be stuck somewhere in history, I'm thankful you're with me."

       Rebecca's eyes misted. "If you weren't the only man in the world who understood me and where I was coming from, I'd still love you. Every time we touched, I felt excitement. If a priest . . ." she caught Carl's grin, "or a minister isn't available, what do we do?"

       "What they've always done." He took both of her hands. "I, Carl Senders, take thee, Rebecca Byng, to be my wife." He looked at her, expectant.

       "I, Rebecca Byng, take thee, Carl Senders, to be my husband." Her eyes began to mist again.

       "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I now declare us, husband and wife." Then, out of the side of his mouth, he added, "You may kiss the bride."

       He did, deeply, careful not to press her side even as he smashed his swollen lip. It was a mixed sensation, but now they had to make camp.

       They piled as many supplies as they could into the truck and hid the trailer where it lay. Carl slowly drove through the brush, picking his way around trees, pausing once in awhile to uproot a small sapling, finally by a roundabout way reaching the meadowland he had scouted earlier. By hiding the truck and erecting the tent in a wooded area on the near side of the pond, they might escape notice from passersby on the trail. It was unlikely that anyone traveling through the meadow would pause to explore the heavily wooded area off the beaten track, unless they followed the tracks of the truck, which he had brushed over as best he could. There's nothing more I can do now.

       He counted on resting in this place until Rebecca could carry more supplies. He had driven the Rover away from the path into a thicket, with the gas siphoned and tarps placed to protect the inside from rain. It might still have a role to play. If nothing else, both vehicles could be used for salvage.

       The tent was large enough for four men, so there was no trouble placing supplies inside. There were no cots, but a pleasant surprise had been four air mattresses. Placing those on top of the extra tarps meant comfort. By late afternoon the camp exuded a real "down home" feeling.

       He looked at the sky. Light was fading. "I'm going back to the beginning to see if we missed anything and to see if anyone else was transported to this time. I'll leave a message. Do you mind staying alone?"

       "No, this camp is safer than the lean-to."

       "Well, keep the rifle and pistol within reach."

       They clung to each other, but Carl had to start or he wouldn't be back before dark. "I'll return as quickly as I can. I wouldn't miss our wedding night, and I need a bath." He gave her a bright smile. Instead, it looked wicked.

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       The glade of their beginning was much the same. No vehicles hung from trees or lay dumped on their sides. Perhaps the SAS moved in and destroyed the house and everything in it when they discovered such a powerful weapon, he thought. He carefully examined where the truck and supply wagon had been found, but they had missed nothing. He did take the map of the U.K from the back seat of the car. It would be invaluable to their future, if they had one.

       The glade of their beginning was much the same. No vehicles hung from trees or lay dumped on their sides. He carefully examined where the truck and supply wagon had been found, but they had missed nothing. He did take the map of the U.K from the back seat of the car. It would be invaluable to their future, if they had one.

       "Help!" Carl was startled and grabbed for his pistol even as he turned toward the sound. The cry had come from the river.

       Racing to the bank he found a man half submerged, partially draped over a low lying riverside tree canted over the river. He had the familiar glassy look, only he was in great danger of slipping completely into the water before he fully understood where he was. Carl dropped everything, including wrist watch and wallet, and started to strip the strap from the rifle to use as support, but the stranger slipped a little lower.

       Using a lifesaving jump, Carl leaped into the river, keeping his head above water when he came down, although the shock of the cold water almost paralyzed him. He caught the tree trunk with his arms even as he encircled the man's slender waist with his legs. The violent movement shook the tree, and the man slipped completely under, but Carl was able to pull him up, sputtering and gasping, as the current tore at both of them.

       The branches of the tree slowed their return to the bank, and Carl was exhausted when he finally pushed the man onto the bank before slowly climbing after him. He looked closely at the man he had saved. He was a foreigner, probably a Middle Easterner and one of the men in the house. He was alive.

       Lifting him under the arm pits, Carl pulled him off the bank. He pondered his predicament. Now what? Can we live together when we've hated so richly in the future? Can we trust him when he probably killed the fishermen? Or, had he? Those men wouldn't exist for a millennium or more. And even then, he may not have killed them.

       The stranger sat up, gasping for breath before retching onto the brown grass. He still was dazed. "Thanks for saving my life. What happened? Where are we? You a Brit?" He eyed Carl's soaked clothes and boots.

       Carl ignored the questions. "Do you have a headache? If so, it'll probably go away in a few hours. You've got some questions to answer yourself, but first let me fill you in on where you are and, maybe, when you are." Carl unfolded in short form a tale that encompassed what they had been able to figure out. The stranger needed to know there were others about and that they still were in Wales, though it was no Wales like he'd ever seen.

       His dark eyes flashed disbelief when Carl began his tale, but soon it was apparent that he not only believed him, the tale explained certain things. "Yes, that's it." He was making more sense of it than Carl.

       Carl concluded. "We'll have to get going if we're going to make it to camp before dark. How's your right arm? You're holding it like it's broken. Let me see."

       He rolled back the soggy sleeve, dripping blood and water, and saw that a bullet had smashed above the wrist, tearing through the flesh. It had missed an artery, otherwise the foreigner would have bled to death, but the wound had reopened, and he was bleeding. A tourniquet, tied near the elbow, meant the injury had occurred long before he had slid into time.

       Carl adjusted the tourniquet and made a sling from the rifle strap. They would return to camp to dress the wound. "We'll have to move as fast as you can or we may get lost in these woods in the dark. It's only a mile from here, but it's not an easy mile. You can save your breath until we get to camp, then you can fill both of us in on what happened. What's your name?"

       "Raphael Ahmet."

       A terrorist?

       Carl bent over, picking up his things, trying to keep water from dripping onto them. He started for the path, leading Raphael. "I'm Carl Senders, and you'll soon meet Rebecca Byng, my wife. Surnames probably haven't been established in this time and place, so we might as well go by our first names, unless you want something honorific, like Raphael, Destroyer of Peace and Tranquility, or something like that."

       His sarcasm wasn't lost on Raphael