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locker_monsterTitle: The Boy Who Waited (34/49)
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.
Southern Quebec, 1751 A.D.
The fresh snow crunched softly beneath Rory’s feet. It had been snowing on and off for the past week or so, but this was the first major snowfall he had encountered since leaving Boston. Everything was white for as far as he could see. The skeletal trees practically sparkled as the sun shone off of the ice crystals. In that moment, this winter world was untouched and Rory felt like he was the only man on the planet.
He had to be in Canada by now. There were no signs denoting where the border was, if indeed there was a border to speak of at this point in history. History class had been a little sparse when it came to Canada. Rory knew it had been a British colony, but beyond that he knew nothing. One always heard more about America rather than the quieter, more polite neighbours to the north.
“My god, I sound like Canada,” Rory said, turning back to the Pandorica. It was covered in snow, making it look like a giant ice cube.
The storm had grown progressively worse as night fell, forcing Rory to stop before he got completely turned around. He had taken shelter beneath a large pine tree, but no such accommodations could be had for the Pandorica. At least the box was heavy enough not to be blown away in the strong winds.
He dug out the ice encrusted rope and slung it over his shoulder. He had started countless days like this, getting the Pandorica ready to go. A horse and cart would have made life so much easier, but Rory couldn’t afford either, both in a monetary sense and practically. A horse needed to be feed and watered. The animal could also break its leg or the cart could crack an axle. Everything led back to civilization eventually and he wasn’t keen on the idea of dragging a strange stone box through populated areas, not after all he had seen. People didn’t know what to make of the Pandorica and that made them unpredictable.
On his first tug, the Pandorica didn’t move. It took two more before the ice around the base of the box cracked, freeing it from its icy prison. The snow added another layer of resistance and it took more of Rory’s strength than usual to get the box moving. A wide groove was cut into the ground as he pulled the Pandorica along, leaving behind an obvious trail, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The road ahead was forward and that was his focus.
“When was the last time we heard about Canada on the news?” Rory asked the Pandorica. There wasn’t much else to do when he was pulling it along and really, who was going to judge him out here. A squirrel?
Canada, Canada. Rory came up blank. As far as he was concerned it was a land of snow, hockey, and beavers.
“Oh, like the Doctor would know any more,” said Rory, imagining a response from Amy. “When was the last time you heard him say…” Rory adopted a more manic tone. “‘The Canadian Prime Minister and I are good mates!’?”
As always, in quiet moments like these, he wondered where the Time Lord was. The Doctor had jumped to the future, but how had he known when to arrive? History had taken some odd turns without the stars. What were the chances that an alternate Amy would even be in Leadworth two hundred and fifty years from now? And the where was a problem, too. Did the Doctor expect the Pandorica to be back beneath Stonehenge? They were all questions that had occurred to Rory before, but that didn’t make them any less worrisome.
The ground suddenly sloped downwards, but Rory noticed too late. He fell and automatically pulled on the rope to steady himself. With the sun melting the snow, the ground had turned to slush, making it dangerously slippery. The one tug was enough to get the Pandorica moving and it started to slide down the incline. Rory tried to push it back, but it was too late. He jumped out of the way to avoid being crushed and watched as the box glided down to the bottom of the hill.
To his great relief, the Pandorica didn’t tumble end over end and it slid to a stop without taking out any trees. Rory scratched his forehead beneath his helmet. Well, that was one way to get a heavy load down a hill.
He re-adjusted his pack - he had kept Jamie’s borrowed clothes for the time when he would have to enter a city again - and then carefully made his way down the incline. His boots had little traction and he didn’t want to end up like the Pandorica, sliding down the hill on his bottom. He was halfway when he saw the group of people running through the trees. They fled like their lives depended on it. They didn’t look back and they were indifferent to the unevenness of the terrain around them.
From their dress and skin colour, he could see that they were Native Americans, not Europeans, but he couldn’t see who was chasing them. They were going to run right past the Pandorica, too occupied to even notice it. Rory could watch them pass and then be on his way.
It would have been the easiest option, turning a blind eye. He had learned the hard way not to get involved with matters that didn’t include him. If he became attached to the cause and to the people then it would only lead to heartache. He couldn’t live through that, not again. But as much as he yearned for the easy path, he knew that wasn’t him. He helped people. It wasn’t just because he was a nurse. If he could let a hand, he would.
He slid and stumbled down the rest of the hill, barely managing to stay upright. Once the ground levelled out, he gained some speed, but the shin high snow did hamper his steps a bit. By the time he caught up, the last of the group was coming towards him and their pursuers weren’t far behind. Rory placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to pull it free at a moment’s notice.
He thought a group of Europeans would come into view, but there were only more Natives armed with bows and arrows.
One of the fleeing Natives, a young woman barely older than twenty with her hair tied up in twin plaits, caught her foot on a buried root and she tripped, landing hard on her knees.
The archers stopped and drew back their bow strings.
Rory charged towards the young woman and threw himself over her. She tried to protest and crawl away, but he gathered her up in his arms and held her close to his chest.
The hail of arrows came a split second later. There weren’t enough to blot out the sky, like in 300, but it was still disturbing to see so many sharpened objects falling around him. Some whizzed past Rory, burying themselves in the ground, but most hit him in the back. The flint arrow tips pinged harmlessly off of his armour but he did feel one lodge in the plume of his helmet. When the barrage ended, he glanced back over his shoulder.
The archers just stared at him, the whites of their eyes exaggerated by the black paint applied to their faces. Rory stood up, but he made sure the young woman stayed behind him. He didn’t even have his sword completely drawn from his scabbard when the archers turned and fled themselves.
The young woman spoke, sounding utterly astonished. Rory turned around to face her and found she already backed off a few steps. “It’s okay,” he assured her, adopting a soothing tone.
She pointed urgently at his head. He reached up and his fingers brushed up against the arrow sticking out of his helmet. He pulled it free from the plume. “It’s armour.” He tapped the arrow head against his helmet and then against the front of his breastplate.
The young woman shouted at the top of her lungs. It wasn’t a scream of fright, but she was definitely calling for the others. Rory cringed. With his sensitive hearing, the woman’s voice was like an explosion in his ear.
Her fellow Natives ran back at her summons, breathing heavily after their mad dash to safety. A few came to an abrupt halt upon seeing the numerous amount of arrows sticking out of the ground. A couple more made an attempt to charge at Rory but the young woman said something that stopped them in their tracks. She continued talking to an older man and there was enough resemblance between them - high forehead, deep brown eyes, pointed chin - that Rory hazarded that he was her father. From her hand gestures, it was clear that she was describing the rain of arrows and Rory’s impervious skin.
The man’s eyes lit up and he stomped his way through the snow over to Rory. When he spoke, his voice was a deep baritone and it sounded like he was inviting Rory to come with them. The man pointed off to the distance, indicating which way was home.
“I was just passing through,” said Rory. “You really don’t need to thank me.” He jerked his thumb back in the direction from which he came. “And I was headed more in that direction anyway.” He looked back at the Pandorica and bit back a sigh.
A few of the Natives had noticed the box and they milled around it, tentatively touching it. Enough of the ice had melted off of it that the swirling designs on the side were visible. They looked more intrigued than afraid but that always worried Rory regardless. The Pandorica had been stolen from him more times than he would have liked.
The man spoke in awe as he regarded the Pandorica. He looked back at Rory and gently grabbed him by the forearm. The invitation was more insistent this time. His daughter came up next to him and she echoed his welcoming tone.
“Oh, why not.” Maybe they could direct him to one of the larger settlements along the coast. Rory nodded his head at the man and his daughter.
The young woman squeaked with delight. The man called to the Natives standing around the Pandorica, issuing orders in that booming voice of his. It was the sort of voice that made you want to listen and do whatever was asked of you. The Natives picked up the rope without a compliant and with a lot of grunting and straining they got the box moving. Rory tried to step forward to help them, but the man’s hand remained around his arm. He smiled warmly and spoke amiably as he guided Rory through the forest. Rory let him. One night. He would spend one night with these people and then he would move on.
For the entire walk back to the Natives’ settlement, the man never stopped talking. He didn’t understand English but he didn’t seem to care that Rory couldn’t fathom what he was saying. Rory didn’t mind. He had learned that the key to learning any language was listening. He wasn’t picking up any vocabulary right now, but he was getting a sense of the intonation and the rhythm. It was a minor thing, but at least he could sound like he knew what he was talking about.
The settlement wasn’t large nor did it look permanent. A hundred people at the most lived in the various tents and the tents themselves were made out of animal skins and poles, making take down a breeze. Come spring, the tribe would probably move on, finding more fertile grounds. Nomads. Rory knew what that felt like.
The man announced their return, shouting loudly so everyone would hear him. Heads poked out of tent flaps and everyone stopped what they were doing. The murmurs that followed stopped suddenly when the Pandorica was dragged into the camp. No one really paid any attention to Rory, which was a bit of a change, but it wasn’t as if he was the first white man they had seen. Europeans were coming by the boatloads to the colonies. It wouldn’t be long now before the Natives were driven from their lands.
The young woman was a natural storyteller it seemed. She was soon recounting the tale of how she met Rory and everyone was hanging on her words. Rory looked around at the captivated faces. He was reminded of the Australian Aboriginals. Storytelling was a large part of their culture. No one dared to interrupt when someone from the tribe was acting out a tale.
He frowned. There was one pale face in the crowd, a marked contrast to the darker skin tones of the Natives. Rory forgot all about maintaining a respectful posture and he pushed his way into the group. People parted, clearing a path for him, and soon he stood before the anomalous figure.
He was a short man and there was no mistaking that he was a European with his almost ghostly skin. His dark brown hair was neatly combed and parted to one side and a small pair of glasses sat perched on his nose. He blinked as he suddenly found himself the centre of attention. With his glasses magnifying his amber eyes, he looked a bit like an owl. As first, Rory couldn’t believe that the man was here in the Natives’ company, but then he noticed what the man wore beneath his coat made out of animal furs.
A black cassock.
A priest.
“Hello,” said the man in French, finding his voice. He sounded a little uncertain, and who could blame him when a random stranger dressed as a Roman centurion was suddenly staring at him, but his tone was still friendly.
French. Rory knew French. He had to pause and think for a moment, though. The French he had learned from Hugues and the other Knights Templar was six hundred years out of date. He needed the French he had learned in school. “Hello.” He decided to start slow. It would come back to him eventually.
“I am Father Pierre Augustin.” He might have continued if the young woman and her father hadn’t approached and started talking to him. Augustin listened carefully and when the pair stopped talking, he nodded his head.
“You understand them?” asked Rory, having watched the exchange. He needed a translator; he never thought he’d find one out here.
“Enough to get by.”
“Do you know what is going on?”
Augustin looked to the man and asked a question. The man nodded, giving his consent. “You are the honoured guest of the Abenaki people. They welcome you to their home and invite you to stay for as long as you need.”
“Honoured guest?”
“Yes. This is Sixsipita.” Augustin gestured to the young woman. “She is the daughter of the chief, Wakichonze.” Upon hearing his name, the man bowed his head. “You saved her life and the chief is forever in your debt.”
Well, that explained the man’s gracious demeanour. “But it seems like there is more.”
“You are correct. Sixsipita believes you are a good omen and that your presence will bring them luck in the new year.”
This was like Cannanore all over again. Rory did not want people believing that he could bring about miracles. “I am flattered, but I will not bring these people luck.”
Augustin shrugged. “Perhaps not, but it is what they believe and I have learned that the beliefs of others must be accepted, no matter how strange. Grace these good people with your presence, raise their spirits. In the end, that is all they seek.”
Rory really couldn’t argue with that. “All right. Tell…” He trailed off, trying to wrap his tongue around the chief’s name, but tried as he might, the syllables wouldn’t come. “Tell them I am grateful,” he said instead.
Dutifully, Augustin translated his words. Wakichonze smiled broadly and he turned to deliver the news to his people. A pleased cheer went up from the crowd.
“Let us get you settled,” offered Augustin.
“Um…” Rory paused as Augustin, Sixsipita, and Wakichonze all turned back to regard him. “Could we do something about my box?” The Pandorica was surrounded now, fenced in by curious Natives. They traced the designs and opinions about what they meant seemed to be the hot topic of the moment.
“Does it need to be moved?” asked Augustin.
The Pandorica wasn’t in the way, per se. It sat off to the side, outside of the circle of tents. Rory doubted someone would run off with it, but he wanted it to be a little more inconspicuous. “Could we cover it up?”
Augustin relayed Rory’s request to Wakichonze and the chief had half a dozen of his people round up animal skins and blankets. A few of the women pulled out a needle and thread as they headed past to Wakichonze’s tent, intent on sewing together all the bits and pieces to make one covering. Rory imagined a patchwork quilt, only made out of deer skin. While the Pandorica wasn’t the right shape to look like a tent, at least it would blend in a bit more.
“That is an interesting object you carry,” Augustin commented casually. It wasn’t clear if the priest recognized the Pandorica and nothing in his expression hinted that he did. Perhaps he did know what it was, but didn’t want to confirm his suspicions at the moment.
Rory saw no reason to dwell on it either way. “It is, is it not?” It was an enigmatic response, something right out of the Doctor’s book. A bit of nonchalant rudeness always seemed to throw people off.
Augustin added nothing else, but he thought he saw a small smile from the priest.
They ducked into one of the larger tents; Wakichonze’s most likely. A small fire for cooking and skins on the ground kept it warm and homely. A woman, small and round in the face, immediately began scolding father and daughter.
“Wakichonze’s wife, Chanteyukan,” Augustin explained in a hushed tone. “She did not want Sixsipita to accompany her father on the hunt.”
The woman seemed more relieved than angry, but her words still had a harsh edge to them. Wakichonze looked slightly sheepish, he obviously wanted to point out that they had a guest, but then his wife pulled both of them into a tight embrace and she muttered something grateful to the both of them. When the family broke apart, Chanteyukan graciously greeted Rory and gestured for everyone to sit down. A second ago you never would have guessed that she had been berating her daughter and husband.
He slipped off his pack and took off his helmet and both were snatched up by Chanteyukan and placed in the corner for safekeeping. Wakichonze sat down around the fire and offered Rory the spot to his left. Sixsipita sat to her father’s right and Augustin sat next to Rory to help translate. Chanteyukan bustled around the tent, grabbing cups and putting a battered kettle over the fire to boil.
Wakichonze spoke and Augustin waited until he was done speaking to translate, causing a bit of a delay, but his words still got across to Rory.
As Augustin had mentioned before, Wakichonze had been out hunting with some of his warriors when they were ambushed by a rival tribe. The other tribe’s superior numbers had made retreat the only option. That was when Rory had arrived on the scene.
“Wakichonze is convinced that they would have been massacred if you had not come to their aid.”
Rory suppressed a shudder at the word massacre. In nursing school they had learned about how diseases could wipe out entire civilizations. The Europeans’ arrival in North America and the subsequent introduction of new illnesses to the Natives had been one of the examples.
“Wakichonze also believes that your arrival was not a chance encounter. You are here to help them with the hunt and oversee their Wiikwandiwin preparations.”
“Wiik-what?” Rory slipped back to English in his confusion, but his tone made it clear that he had no idea what was going on.
“It is a seasonal ceremony to celebrate mid-winter. Celebrations have been delayed due to the lack of a sufficient kill to share amongst the tribe.”
“Oh.” Being called a good omen made more sense now. The tribe was down on their luck and they would take what fortune they could find, no matter strange it seemed. “I hate to disappoint them, but I am not much of a hunter.”
Augustin smiled at him. The priest reminded Rory of the butcher back in Leadworth. A man of short stature but he wasn’t short on charm or kindness. “I do not think they would hold it against you if you do not bring down a large buck.”
Well, if they didn’t expect him to wrestle a deer with his bare hands then Rory was fine with that. And Augustin was right. If he could raise spirits then that was the best kind of luck. “Please tell…” He paused, concentrating hard on getting all the syllables right. “Wakichonze that I would be honoured to join their hunt.”
The priest readily relayed Rory’s words to Wakichonze. The chief grasped Rory by the forearm, exchanging a warrior’s handshake. He intoned what sounded like a formal blessing. Rory glanced back at Augustin. Augustin blinked and the surprise in his eyes was magnified by the lenses of his glasses.
“What is it?” asked Rory.
“Wakichonze has bestowed you with an Abenaki name. That is quite an honour.”
“Okay.” He had accumulated a few titles over the centuries. Rory was going to need a list soon to keep them all straight in his head. “Anything interesting?” he joked.
“Alnahlakw Madagen. Iron Hide.”
Sixsipita mimed tapping an arrow to her head. Rory couldn’t help but laugh.
The bitter winter wind blew the snow from the bare treetops, making it seem like it was snowing. Rory held out his hand, palm up, catching a few of the flakes. They melted, as they would upon anyone’s skin. Even after all this time, it was still baffling how human his plastic body was. No blood, no pulse, no aging, no growth, but he could still see his breath turn to mist and he was warm to the touch. Why have some things but not the other? He supposed being nearly indestructible was a fair trade-off for not needing to eat and sleep.
The world slept around him. The Abenaki were tucked up in their tents, or wigwams as he had learned, and the woodland creatures had grown silent. It was just him and the Pandorica, as it had been on so many other nights like this. Rory sat in his usual position, at the base of the box with his back against one of the intricate circles. The makeshift covering the Abenaki had stitched together was soft and warm and it made him wish that he could drift off and have a nice dream. He’d even settle for some of the bark tea that Chanteyukan had made earlier.
“A cup of tea and a good book,” amended Rory. He paused, listening for Amy’s comment. “Fine,” he said with a laugh. “A cup of tea, biscuits, a good book for me, and a movie with muscular Romans for you.” Going to see 300 had been Amy’s suggestion. They had driven the two hours to Gloucester just to see it opening day.
“Yeah, yeah, they were Spartans, I know. Same region.” Rory was ready to launch into a debate about what a proper soldier would wear when going to war - certainly not just a cape and a pair of barely there pants - when he heard footsteps in the snow.
He was on his feet in an instant, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. It was instinct, drilled into him through the countless centuries. He had to be ready all the time; enemies could be anywhere. Perhaps it was bordering on paranoia, but Rory was over 1600 years old. He had seen too much to be naive anymore.
Luckily, he hesitated in drawing his sword, saving himself from some embarrassment. Like, for example, holding the tip of his sword to Augustin’s throat. That definitely would have made a bad impression. He forced himself to relax and nodded a greeting to the priest.
“Father Augustin. You could not sleep?” It was the middle of the night and too cold to be wandering around. A half-moon seemed to make the snow glow, but it still wasn’t enough light to navigate your way.
“You will find that as you get older, sleep becomes more elusive. You are not cold?”
“Iron Hide,” Rory said with a shrug, making use of his new moniker. “What about you?” The priest wore his heavy animal skin coat, but his arms were still wrapped around himself to keep the warmth in.
“I am all right. Jesuits do not simply wear cassocks because they are fashionable. They are quite warm as well.”
“Jesuit. Are you here on a mission?” Religion wasn’t really Rory’s thing. He respected it, especially after spending time with the Knights Templar, but he wasn’t an active participant. He left that to his father.
“Yes, you could say that.” Rory gestured for Augustin to sit down. He let the priest take the warmer seat at the base of the Pandorica while he sat down on the snow covered ground. He was aware that it was cold but he didn’t shiver. “The real missionaries were the Jesuits who came to New France in the last century. They were brave men, venturing into the unknown with nothing but their faith in God. I came here with maps, a French-Abenaki dictionary, and knowledge from the journals of those who came before me.”
Rory made a mental note. New France, not Canada. It seemed that name came later.
“If any of the Abenaki wish to convert, I will gladly oblige, but there is more to do here than preach sermons.” Augustin chuckled softly to himself. “Though, I seem to be doing just that. I have not allowed you to get a word in. My apologies.”
“No, it is all right.” As often as Rory talked to Amy, it was still nice to hear a voice other than his own. “I do not have much to say,” he added, despite evidence to the contrary. He was a Roman centurion dragging around a large stone box. Of course he had a story to tell.
“I will not contradict you,” Augustin assured him. If there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, it was masked by the reflection of the moon off of the priest’s glasses.
Rating: PG
Characters: Rory, with appearances from Barbara
Timeline: set between "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"
Summary: London, 1996. Barbara Wright prepares the Pandorica for exhibit at the National Museum. As the work unfolds, she recounts the lengthy history of the stone box and its loyal protector, the Lone Centurion.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Everything else is me taking liberties with history.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. This story would still be sitting on my hard drive if it weren't for you.1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49
Southern Quebec, 1751 A.D.
The fresh snow crunched softly beneath Rory’s feet. It had been snowing on and off for the past week or so, but this was the first major snowfall he had encountered since leaving Boston. Everything was white for as far as he could see. The skeletal trees practically sparkled as the sun shone off of the ice crystals. In that moment, this winter world was untouched and Rory felt like he was the only man on the planet.
He had to be in Canada by now. There were no signs denoting where the border was, if indeed there was a border to speak of at this point in history. History class had been a little sparse when it came to Canada. Rory knew it had been a British colony, but beyond that he knew nothing. One always heard more about America rather than the quieter, more polite neighbours to the north.
“My god, I sound like Canada,” Rory said, turning back to the Pandorica. It was covered in snow, making it look like a giant ice cube.
The storm had grown progressively worse as night fell, forcing Rory to stop before he got completely turned around. He had taken shelter beneath a large pine tree, but no such accommodations could be had for the Pandorica. At least the box was heavy enough not to be blown away in the strong winds.
He dug out the ice encrusted rope and slung it over his shoulder. He had started countless days like this, getting the Pandorica ready to go. A horse and cart would have made life so much easier, but Rory couldn’t afford either, both in a monetary sense and practically. A horse needed to be feed and watered. The animal could also break its leg or the cart could crack an axle. Everything led back to civilization eventually and he wasn’t keen on the idea of dragging a strange stone box through populated areas, not after all he had seen. People didn’t know what to make of the Pandorica and that made them unpredictable.
On his first tug, the Pandorica didn’t move. It took two more before the ice around the base of the box cracked, freeing it from its icy prison. The snow added another layer of resistance and it took more of Rory’s strength than usual to get the box moving. A wide groove was cut into the ground as he pulled the Pandorica along, leaving behind an obvious trail, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The road ahead was forward and that was his focus.
“When was the last time we heard about Canada on the news?” Rory asked the Pandorica. There wasn’t much else to do when he was pulling it along and really, who was going to judge him out here. A squirrel?
Canada, Canada. Rory came up blank. As far as he was concerned it was a land of snow, hockey, and beavers.
“Oh, like the Doctor would know any more,” said Rory, imagining a response from Amy. “When was the last time you heard him say…” Rory adopted a more manic tone. “‘The Canadian Prime Minister and I are good mates!’?”
As always, in quiet moments like these, he wondered where the Time Lord was. The Doctor had jumped to the future, but how had he known when to arrive? History had taken some odd turns without the stars. What were the chances that an alternate Amy would even be in Leadworth two hundred and fifty years from now? And the where was a problem, too. Did the Doctor expect the Pandorica to be back beneath Stonehenge? They were all questions that had occurred to Rory before, but that didn’t make them any less worrisome.
The ground suddenly sloped downwards, but Rory noticed too late. He fell and automatically pulled on the rope to steady himself. With the sun melting the snow, the ground had turned to slush, making it dangerously slippery. The one tug was enough to get the Pandorica moving and it started to slide down the incline. Rory tried to push it back, but it was too late. He jumped out of the way to avoid being crushed and watched as the box glided down to the bottom of the hill.
To his great relief, the Pandorica didn’t tumble end over end and it slid to a stop without taking out any trees. Rory scratched his forehead beneath his helmet. Well, that was one way to get a heavy load down a hill.
He re-adjusted his pack - he had kept Jamie’s borrowed clothes for the time when he would have to enter a city again - and then carefully made his way down the incline. His boots had little traction and he didn’t want to end up like the Pandorica, sliding down the hill on his bottom. He was halfway when he saw the group of people running through the trees. They fled like their lives depended on it. They didn’t look back and they were indifferent to the unevenness of the terrain around them.
From their dress and skin colour, he could see that they were Native Americans, not Europeans, but he couldn’t see who was chasing them. They were going to run right past the Pandorica, too occupied to even notice it. Rory could watch them pass and then be on his way.
It would have been the easiest option, turning a blind eye. He had learned the hard way not to get involved with matters that didn’t include him. If he became attached to the cause and to the people then it would only lead to heartache. He couldn’t live through that, not again. But as much as he yearned for the easy path, he knew that wasn’t him. He helped people. It wasn’t just because he was a nurse. If he could let a hand, he would.
He slid and stumbled down the rest of the hill, barely managing to stay upright. Once the ground levelled out, he gained some speed, but the shin high snow did hamper his steps a bit. By the time he caught up, the last of the group was coming towards him and their pursuers weren’t far behind. Rory placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to pull it free at a moment’s notice.
He thought a group of Europeans would come into view, but there were only more Natives armed with bows and arrows.
One of the fleeing Natives, a young woman barely older than twenty with her hair tied up in twin plaits, caught her foot on a buried root and she tripped, landing hard on her knees.
The archers stopped and drew back their bow strings.
Rory charged towards the young woman and threw himself over her. She tried to protest and crawl away, but he gathered her up in his arms and held her close to his chest.
The hail of arrows came a split second later. There weren’t enough to blot out the sky, like in 300, but it was still disturbing to see so many sharpened objects falling around him. Some whizzed past Rory, burying themselves in the ground, but most hit him in the back. The flint arrow tips pinged harmlessly off of his armour but he did feel one lodge in the plume of his helmet. When the barrage ended, he glanced back over his shoulder.
The archers just stared at him, the whites of their eyes exaggerated by the black paint applied to their faces. Rory stood up, but he made sure the young woman stayed behind him. He didn’t even have his sword completely drawn from his scabbard when the archers turned and fled themselves.
The young woman spoke, sounding utterly astonished. Rory turned around to face her and found she already backed off a few steps. “It’s okay,” he assured her, adopting a soothing tone.
She pointed urgently at his head. He reached up and his fingers brushed up against the arrow sticking out of his helmet. He pulled it free from the plume. “It’s armour.” He tapped the arrow head against his helmet and then against the front of his breastplate.
The young woman shouted at the top of her lungs. It wasn’t a scream of fright, but she was definitely calling for the others. Rory cringed. With his sensitive hearing, the woman’s voice was like an explosion in his ear.
Her fellow Natives ran back at her summons, breathing heavily after their mad dash to safety. A few came to an abrupt halt upon seeing the numerous amount of arrows sticking out of the ground. A couple more made an attempt to charge at Rory but the young woman said something that stopped them in their tracks. She continued talking to an older man and there was enough resemblance between them - high forehead, deep brown eyes, pointed chin - that Rory hazarded that he was her father. From her hand gestures, it was clear that she was describing the rain of arrows and Rory’s impervious skin.
The man’s eyes lit up and he stomped his way through the snow over to Rory. When he spoke, his voice was a deep baritone and it sounded like he was inviting Rory to come with them. The man pointed off to the distance, indicating which way was home.
“I was just passing through,” said Rory. “You really don’t need to thank me.” He jerked his thumb back in the direction from which he came. “And I was headed more in that direction anyway.” He looked back at the Pandorica and bit back a sigh.
A few of the Natives had noticed the box and they milled around it, tentatively touching it. Enough of the ice had melted off of it that the swirling designs on the side were visible. They looked more intrigued than afraid but that always worried Rory regardless. The Pandorica had been stolen from him more times than he would have liked.
The man spoke in awe as he regarded the Pandorica. He looked back at Rory and gently grabbed him by the forearm. The invitation was more insistent this time. His daughter came up next to him and she echoed his welcoming tone.
“Oh, why not.” Maybe they could direct him to one of the larger settlements along the coast. Rory nodded his head at the man and his daughter.
The young woman squeaked with delight. The man called to the Natives standing around the Pandorica, issuing orders in that booming voice of his. It was the sort of voice that made you want to listen and do whatever was asked of you. The Natives picked up the rope without a compliant and with a lot of grunting and straining they got the box moving. Rory tried to step forward to help them, but the man’s hand remained around his arm. He smiled warmly and spoke amiably as he guided Rory through the forest. Rory let him. One night. He would spend one night with these people and then he would move on.
For the entire walk back to the Natives’ settlement, the man never stopped talking. He didn’t understand English but he didn’t seem to care that Rory couldn’t fathom what he was saying. Rory didn’t mind. He had learned that the key to learning any language was listening. He wasn’t picking up any vocabulary right now, but he was getting a sense of the intonation and the rhythm. It was a minor thing, but at least he could sound like he knew what he was talking about.
The settlement wasn’t large nor did it look permanent. A hundred people at the most lived in the various tents and the tents themselves were made out of animal skins and poles, making take down a breeze. Come spring, the tribe would probably move on, finding more fertile grounds. Nomads. Rory knew what that felt like.
The man announced their return, shouting loudly so everyone would hear him. Heads poked out of tent flaps and everyone stopped what they were doing. The murmurs that followed stopped suddenly when the Pandorica was dragged into the camp. No one really paid any attention to Rory, which was a bit of a change, but it wasn’t as if he was the first white man they had seen. Europeans were coming by the boatloads to the colonies. It wouldn’t be long now before the Natives were driven from their lands.
The young woman was a natural storyteller it seemed. She was soon recounting the tale of how she met Rory and everyone was hanging on her words. Rory looked around at the captivated faces. He was reminded of the Australian Aboriginals. Storytelling was a large part of their culture. No one dared to interrupt when someone from the tribe was acting out a tale.
He frowned. There was one pale face in the crowd, a marked contrast to the darker skin tones of the Natives. Rory forgot all about maintaining a respectful posture and he pushed his way into the group. People parted, clearing a path for him, and soon he stood before the anomalous figure.
He was a short man and there was no mistaking that he was a European with his almost ghostly skin. His dark brown hair was neatly combed and parted to one side and a small pair of glasses sat perched on his nose. He blinked as he suddenly found himself the centre of attention. With his glasses magnifying his amber eyes, he looked a bit like an owl. As first, Rory couldn’t believe that the man was here in the Natives’ company, but then he noticed what the man wore beneath his coat made out of animal furs.
A black cassock.
A priest.
“Hello,” said the man in French, finding his voice. He sounded a little uncertain, and who could blame him when a random stranger dressed as a Roman centurion was suddenly staring at him, but his tone was still friendly.
French. Rory knew French. He had to pause and think for a moment, though. The French he had learned from Hugues and the other Knights Templar was six hundred years out of date. He needed the French he had learned in school. “Hello.” He decided to start slow. It would come back to him eventually.
“I am Father Pierre Augustin.” He might have continued if the young woman and her father hadn’t approached and started talking to him. Augustin listened carefully and when the pair stopped talking, he nodded his head.
“You understand them?” asked Rory, having watched the exchange. He needed a translator; he never thought he’d find one out here.
“Enough to get by.”
“Do you know what is going on?”
Augustin looked to the man and asked a question. The man nodded, giving his consent. “You are the honoured guest of the Abenaki people. They welcome you to their home and invite you to stay for as long as you need.”
“Honoured guest?”
“Yes. This is Sixsipita.” Augustin gestured to the young woman. “She is the daughter of the chief, Wakichonze.” Upon hearing his name, the man bowed his head. “You saved her life and the chief is forever in your debt.”
Well, that explained the man’s gracious demeanour. “But it seems like there is more.”
“You are correct. Sixsipita believes you are a good omen and that your presence will bring them luck in the new year.”
This was like Cannanore all over again. Rory did not want people believing that he could bring about miracles. “I am flattered, but I will not bring these people luck.”
Augustin shrugged. “Perhaps not, but it is what they believe and I have learned that the beliefs of others must be accepted, no matter how strange. Grace these good people with your presence, raise their spirits. In the end, that is all they seek.”
Rory really couldn’t argue with that. “All right. Tell…” He trailed off, trying to wrap his tongue around the chief’s name, but tried as he might, the syllables wouldn’t come. “Tell them I am grateful,” he said instead.
Dutifully, Augustin translated his words. Wakichonze smiled broadly and he turned to deliver the news to his people. A pleased cheer went up from the crowd.
“Let us get you settled,” offered Augustin.
“Um…” Rory paused as Augustin, Sixsipita, and Wakichonze all turned back to regard him. “Could we do something about my box?” The Pandorica was surrounded now, fenced in by curious Natives. They traced the designs and opinions about what they meant seemed to be the hot topic of the moment.
“Does it need to be moved?” asked Augustin.
The Pandorica wasn’t in the way, per se. It sat off to the side, outside of the circle of tents. Rory doubted someone would run off with it, but he wanted it to be a little more inconspicuous. “Could we cover it up?”
Augustin relayed Rory’s request to Wakichonze and the chief had half a dozen of his people round up animal skins and blankets. A few of the women pulled out a needle and thread as they headed past to Wakichonze’s tent, intent on sewing together all the bits and pieces to make one covering. Rory imagined a patchwork quilt, only made out of deer skin. While the Pandorica wasn’t the right shape to look like a tent, at least it would blend in a bit more.
“That is an interesting object you carry,” Augustin commented casually. It wasn’t clear if the priest recognized the Pandorica and nothing in his expression hinted that he did. Perhaps he did know what it was, but didn’t want to confirm his suspicions at the moment.
Rory saw no reason to dwell on it either way. “It is, is it not?” It was an enigmatic response, something right out of the Doctor’s book. A bit of nonchalant rudeness always seemed to throw people off.
Augustin added nothing else, but he thought he saw a small smile from the priest.
They ducked into one of the larger tents; Wakichonze’s most likely. A small fire for cooking and skins on the ground kept it warm and homely. A woman, small and round in the face, immediately began scolding father and daughter.
“Wakichonze’s wife, Chanteyukan,” Augustin explained in a hushed tone. “She did not want Sixsipita to accompany her father on the hunt.”
The woman seemed more relieved than angry, but her words still had a harsh edge to them. Wakichonze looked slightly sheepish, he obviously wanted to point out that they had a guest, but then his wife pulled both of them into a tight embrace and she muttered something grateful to the both of them. When the family broke apart, Chanteyukan graciously greeted Rory and gestured for everyone to sit down. A second ago you never would have guessed that she had been berating her daughter and husband.
He slipped off his pack and took off his helmet and both were snatched up by Chanteyukan and placed in the corner for safekeeping. Wakichonze sat down around the fire and offered Rory the spot to his left. Sixsipita sat to her father’s right and Augustin sat next to Rory to help translate. Chanteyukan bustled around the tent, grabbing cups and putting a battered kettle over the fire to boil.
Wakichonze spoke and Augustin waited until he was done speaking to translate, causing a bit of a delay, but his words still got across to Rory.
As Augustin had mentioned before, Wakichonze had been out hunting with some of his warriors when they were ambushed by a rival tribe. The other tribe’s superior numbers had made retreat the only option. That was when Rory had arrived on the scene.
“Wakichonze is convinced that they would have been massacred if you had not come to their aid.”
Rory suppressed a shudder at the word massacre. In nursing school they had learned about how diseases could wipe out entire civilizations. The Europeans’ arrival in North America and the subsequent introduction of new illnesses to the Natives had been one of the examples.
“Wakichonze also believes that your arrival was not a chance encounter. You are here to help them with the hunt and oversee their Wiikwandiwin preparations.”
“Wiik-what?” Rory slipped back to English in his confusion, but his tone made it clear that he had no idea what was going on.
“It is a seasonal ceremony to celebrate mid-winter. Celebrations have been delayed due to the lack of a sufficient kill to share amongst the tribe.”
“Oh.” Being called a good omen made more sense now. The tribe was down on their luck and they would take what fortune they could find, no matter strange it seemed. “I hate to disappoint them, but I am not much of a hunter.”
Augustin smiled at him. The priest reminded Rory of the butcher back in Leadworth. A man of short stature but he wasn’t short on charm or kindness. “I do not think they would hold it against you if you do not bring down a large buck.”
Well, if they didn’t expect him to wrestle a deer with his bare hands then Rory was fine with that. And Augustin was right. If he could raise spirits then that was the best kind of luck. “Please tell…” He paused, concentrating hard on getting all the syllables right. “Wakichonze that I would be honoured to join their hunt.”
The priest readily relayed Rory’s words to Wakichonze. The chief grasped Rory by the forearm, exchanging a warrior’s handshake. He intoned what sounded like a formal blessing. Rory glanced back at Augustin. Augustin blinked and the surprise in his eyes was magnified by the lenses of his glasses.
“What is it?” asked Rory.
“Wakichonze has bestowed you with an Abenaki name. That is quite an honour.”
“Okay.” He had accumulated a few titles over the centuries. Rory was going to need a list soon to keep them all straight in his head. “Anything interesting?” he joked.
“Alnahlakw Madagen. Iron Hide.”
Sixsipita mimed tapping an arrow to her head. Rory couldn’t help but laugh.
The bitter winter wind blew the snow from the bare treetops, making it seem like it was snowing. Rory held out his hand, palm up, catching a few of the flakes. They melted, as they would upon anyone’s skin. Even after all this time, it was still baffling how human his plastic body was. No blood, no pulse, no aging, no growth, but he could still see his breath turn to mist and he was warm to the touch. Why have some things but not the other? He supposed being nearly indestructible was a fair trade-off for not needing to eat and sleep.
The world slept around him. The Abenaki were tucked up in their tents, or wigwams as he had learned, and the woodland creatures had grown silent. It was just him and the Pandorica, as it had been on so many other nights like this. Rory sat in his usual position, at the base of the box with his back against one of the intricate circles. The makeshift covering the Abenaki had stitched together was soft and warm and it made him wish that he could drift off and have a nice dream. He’d even settle for some of the bark tea that Chanteyukan had made earlier.
“A cup of tea and a good book,” amended Rory. He paused, listening for Amy’s comment. “Fine,” he said with a laugh. “A cup of tea, biscuits, a good book for me, and a movie with muscular Romans for you.” Going to see 300 had been Amy’s suggestion. They had driven the two hours to Gloucester just to see it opening day.
“Yeah, yeah, they were Spartans, I know. Same region.” Rory was ready to launch into a debate about what a proper soldier would wear when going to war - certainly not just a cape and a pair of barely there pants - when he heard footsteps in the snow.
He was on his feet in an instant, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. It was instinct, drilled into him through the countless centuries. He had to be ready all the time; enemies could be anywhere. Perhaps it was bordering on paranoia, but Rory was over 1600 years old. He had seen too much to be naive anymore.
Luckily, he hesitated in drawing his sword, saving himself from some embarrassment. Like, for example, holding the tip of his sword to Augustin’s throat. That definitely would have made a bad impression. He forced himself to relax and nodded a greeting to the priest.
“Father Augustin. You could not sleep?” It was the middle of the night and too cold to be wandering around. A half-moon seemed to make the snow glow, but it still wasn’t enough light to navigate your way.
“You will find that as you get older, sleep becomes more elusive. You are not cold?”
“Iron Hide,” Rory said with a shrug, making use of his new moniker. “What about you?” The priest wore his heavy animal skin coat, but his arms were still wrapped around himself to keep the warmth in.
“I am all right. Jesuits do not simply wear cassocks because they are fashionable. They are quite warm as well.”
“Jesuit. Are you here on a mission?” Religion wasn’t really Rory’s thing. He respected it, especially after spending time with the Knights Templar, but he wasn’t an active participant. He left that to his father.
“Yes, you could say that.” Rory gestured for Augustin to sit down. He let the priest take the warmer seat at the base of the Pandorica while he sat down on the snow covered ground. He was aware that it was cold but he didn’t shiver. “The real missionaries were the Jesuits who came to New France in the last century. They were brave men, venturing into the unknown with nothing but their faith in God. I came here with maps, a French-Abenaki dictionary, and knowledge from the journals of those who came before me.”
Rory made a mental note. New France, not Canada. It seemed that name came later.
“If any of the Abenaki wish to convert, I will gladly oblige, but there is more to do here than preach sermons.” Augustin chuckled softly to himself. “Though, I seem to be doing just that. I have not allowed you to get a word in. My apologies.”
“No, it is all right.” As often as Rory talked to Amy, it was still nice to hear a voice other than his own. “I do not have much to say,” he added, despite evidence to the contrary. He was a Roman centurion dragging around a large stone box. Of course he had a story to tell.
“I will not contradict you,” Augustin assured him. If there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, it was masked by the reflection of the moon off of the priest’s glasses.
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History with heart
Date: 2013-08-11 01:31 am (UTC)Re: History with heart
Date: 2013-08-11 10:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-12 05:31 pm (UTC)*HUGS*
no subject
Date: 2013-08-13 11:39 pm (UTC)I couldn't help but get Rory to Canada. I suppose he could have hung around in the United States and maybe encountered the Revolution, but I have little interest in that part of history. It's all about Canada for me. :-)