A Block Of Time by Judy Colella (historical books to read TXT) 📖

A dwarf. I was looking at a dwarf. Not a human with dwarfism, but a…a dyed-in-the-wool dwarf. You know – like Googli, or Dimwee, or whatever those guys’ names are in the wizard stories. He was wearing leather armor, too, and had an axe stuffed into his belt that was so big (the axe, not the belt), that I had to wonder if he was compensating somehow. He was also sitting on a stegosaur. I think. The dinosaur that looks like a rhinoceros on radiation-laced steroids? Anyhow, the gigantic thing was snorting at me (the stegosaur, not the dwarf), its spiked tail lashing back and forth behind it, and I have to admit I found myself suddenly needing a bathroom.

Okay, let me go back a bit here. I’m a human, not very tough, totally girly person who works for lawyers. I type for them. I file their papers. I get them coffee. I complain about them. I even answer their phones. That’s me. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to write home about unless you’re into that sort of thing. I’m single, twenty-three, and this is beginning to sound like a dating service application. Sorry. Dinosaurs and dwarves. Focus, Silver. Er, yeah, that’s me. Silver McFadden, and don’t ask me what my parents were smoking when they named me.

Right! So there I was, having a normal, oh-god-what-am-I-doing-here kind of day, and was getting ready to go to lunch after an uneventful morning of answering phones and typing various legal documents. I got up from my desk and grabbed my purse from the back of my chair, then turned to head for the door. Well, that never happened. Why? Because instead of standing in a plush law office, I was suddenly in a kind of forest that was absolutely lousy with foliage, and there in front of me was this dwarf chilling on a stegosaur.

Naturally, I shrieked. So did the dwarf for some reason. The stegosaur? No. Snorted, as previously noted, nothing more. For the moment. My next reaction, after disentangling my heart from my uvula, was to wonder if maybe I’d stood up too quickly and had passed out. That would explain this bizarre fantasy scene confronting me. Only it didn’t explain the rich aroma of dinosaur dung suddenly assaulting my nostrils as the horny bastard unexpectedly did its business right there on the path. Ew?

The dwarf recovered from its/his/her own shock and leaned forward to peer down at me from under eyebrows that looked like insanely tiny angora cats. I took a step back and returned the stare, absolutely positive that I looked nowhere near as threatening as I was trying to appear.

“Ha!” That was the dwarf. It followed this cryptic remark with, “Atrast vala!”

I think. At least that’s how it sounded. I responded with a clever, “Um, what?”

Some mumbling came from the region of its thick, curly red beard, and then a loud sigh. “Human?”

Well, that startled me! “Yes. How did you – ”

“What do you here?”

“Who are you – Yoda? Anyway, I have no idea how I even got here, so I can’t answer that.”

“Not Yoda. No dwarf is Yoda. Kalar.”

“Er, Kalar to you, too.”

“No, brainless human – Kalar!” This was followed by some meaningful chest-pounding.

“Ah, that’s your name! Okay. And hey, I’m not brainless! I wasn’t sure if you were saying – ”

“No talking! Human females have no worth to great dwarves. Keep silent unless answering questions!”

I proceeded to introduce him to a human four-letter word tucked nicely into a two-word phrase that ended in “you” and turned away. Jerk.

“Human! You die!”

I heard the stegosaur making a different sound behind me, a sound that translated into the helpful sentence, “Get the hell out of the way, stupid – you’re about to be trampled!” So I dove sideways into a convenient bush – ouch – right as the beast thundered past.

You know, I paid a huge percentage of my last paycheck for the outfit I was wearing, so it irked me ever so slightly that one of the sleeves had been torn at the shoulder seam by a nasty little bush-branch. The other little branches poking me in highly sensitive places didn’t improve my suddenly horrible mood, either. That dwarf – Kalar – had easily earned a place at the tippy-top of my Smush List. Not that I could smush the bugger if he was still sitting on the stegosaur. But that’s okay. I’m patient. He’ll have to get off eventually, I told myself, prying my backside off a particularly sharp branch as I stood once more, wondering where my purse had gotten to.

Then I reviewed my latest set of thoughts and realized that none of my reactions fit the situation. I should be gibbering in fear. I should be rolled into a quivering ball of moaning confusion. I should be –

“A fair maiden in distress?”

I shrieked again and spun around. This time, I was looking at a tall man who appeared to be in his early thirties. He was also cute (sorry, but he was). He seemed quite normal, except, well, yeah. The long blue robe covered with golden runes and his shiny black, hooded cloak and what I guess had to be a magic staff of some kind, detracted a bit from the “normal” thing. That and the vaguely pointed ears. I asked him about none of that, however, since I’d obviously gone temporarily insane.

“Distress. Sure. How do you know English?”

His beautiful green eyes widened in surprise. “English? Who is that? The dwarf, you mean? His name is Kalar, not English.”

Perhaps I’d whacked my cranium on the headboard when I’d gone to sleep last night… “No, the language. I speak English, but I don’t understand how you do, unless I’m imagining all of this.”

He frowned. He looked past me – which I hate. It makes me feel like something awful is about to creep up behind me and eat my head. But then his expression cleared. “Ah, I see. I speak Commontongue. I can only surmise your language shares its origin somehow.”

I stared up at him for a moment, then sat on the path. I hadn’t planned to do that, you know – my legs simply gave out. Not surprising, really.

“Are you injured?” His alarm was genuine as he knelt beside me.

“You smell amazingly good,” I observed – right before face-planting into his chest and passing out for real.

Fast-forward with me, please. Aside from everything that happened while I was unconscious and therefore don’t know about (other than realizing upon waking up that someone had removed my torn clothing and dressed me in a kind of nightgown), the next several days consisted mainly of my recovery from an acute state of shock, finding out that I was still on earth but way, way, way in the past – which brought on another bout of shock – and learning that my host was a half-elf named Zoxan who could conjure up all sorts of cool magic stuff but couldn’t cook worth a darn. And that was probably the longest sentence I’ve ever written.

Oh. You’re reading my memoir, um, thingy in case you were wondering. Maybe you weren’t. Wondering, I mean. Whatever.

On my fourth day in Zoxan’s cottage, I finally mustered up the courage to ask him if he had any idea how I’d gotten here. Before answering, he made sure I was comfortably seated on the edge of the bed. I suppose he figured I’d pass out again. Then he got me a cup of water and dragged over a stool so he could sit facing me as he spoke.

“I don’t know what you have been taught about time,” he began. “Some compare it to cloth, some – ”

“Fabric, you mean.”

“No, cloth. In Commontongue, ‘fabric’ is a kind of fish.” He was clearly suppressing a giggle, and if fabric was a kind of fish to him, I could see why.

“Go on, please.”

“Yes. As I was saying, some compare time to cloth, while others say it is a stream. Some say time is a river, you see.”

Heaven forgive me, but I almost started singing “The Rose.” I nodded, controlling myself. “Ah. A river.”

“None of these conjectures are correct, though. My studies, and the research of many before me, point to time as an entity that moves in large blocks from one reality to the next, one era to another.”

“How?”

“No one knows, actually. But we do know that as it travels, it sometimes breaks into smaller blocks within itself which pick up objects or creatures or even intelligent life-forms, depositing these unsuspecting travelers elsewhere in time. This, I believe, is what happened to you, Silver.”

“So I got snagged by this sniveling little block of time, dragged across the continuum, and dropped off in your primeval forest, right?”

He put his head to one side and crossed his legs. “Yes, there most certainly are differences in our languages. But I think I take your meaning. You are, er, correct, it would appear, if I did understand you. Tell me what you know of history.”

Primordial ooze. Dinosaurs. Cavemen. Egypt. Greece. Rome. Wars. Barbarians. More wars. The formation of Europe. Eric the Red and Christopher Columbus. America. Yet more wars. The Declaration of Independence. Queen Victoria. Bolsheviks. Communism. Reagan. Walls coming down. And yes, our old friend, war. Terrorism, television, computers, the internet, on and on. When I was done, he shook his head and got up.

“I feared such things would eventually come to pass,” he mumbled, grabbing a wineskin from its hook on a nearby wall. Okay, all the walls were nearby, his cottage being unquestionably teeny.

After fortifying himself with the libation, he sat down again and explained that what we call “cavemen” were most likely half-orcs and maybe a troll-elf hybrid or two. Mind-boggling, really. He said they tended to live more in caves than anywhere else, mostly because they were too stupid to figure out how to build a dwelling. Their only form of entertainment, he added, was to capture members of weaker species and make them paint pictures on the walls depicting animals, hunting expeditions, and battles, then would stare at these works of “art,” deeply fascinated, as they ate the artists. It occurred to me that entertainment hadn’t progressed all that much over the millennia.

“Hey, look, is there any chance I can get back to my own time? And did you happen to find a purse?”

He had fallen silent and was staring at the tips of his gold-spangled blue shoes. He raised his gaze to meet mine. “Why would you want to go back? Your time doesn’t sound very appealing. So much violence, such complicated living conditions…things are much simpler and easier here.” Nothing about the purse.

I snorted. “Right! I can simply get stomped on by a gigantic reptile, or have my head thwanged off by a pissy dwarf. How appealing! No, thanks, Zoxan. Which reminds me – what in the world are you? I mean, you look human, but those ears!”

He sat straighter, and I could tell I’d offended him. “They are my mother’s ears!”

The look of