He stumbled over the uneven floor, willing the transition to happen. When he reached the end of the straight section, he turned around and hobbled back to start again. After two failed attempts to make the leap, he remembered Wilhelmina’s ley lamp in the inner pouch sewn into this shirt. He fished it out and waved it around. The little blue lights flashed, gave off a dying flicker, and winked out. Turning this way and that in the passage, he held the lamp before him, but could not raise another signal and was forced to conclude that any ley activity present in the cave was now dormant.
With a grumble and grinding of his teeth, Kit turned on his heel and headed back to the cave entrance to wait until the ley grew active once more. The day outside was hot and bright; it took him awhile to get used to sunlight again, and heat. He was soon sweating in his furs and wishing he had something else to wear. He shed the long, heavy tunic shirt, rolling it up and stashing it carefully under a rock just inside the mouth of the cave; he would need it later.
Returning to the hillside, he took the opportunity to more properly spy out the land. It was fairly arid hill country with a ridge of jagged grey mountains rising to the northwest, a river winding through a green valley below, and what appeared to be olive trees dotting the hillsides within view. The mountains looked vaguely familiar, but he could not place them. Aside from the olive trees, he might be almost anywhere-not that it mattered, because he did not plan on hanging around long enough to find out more. It irked him that he had been transferred to this place. Just his luck, he moaned; when he wanted to leave, the ley line he knew refused to open. Now that he had a reason to stay a little longer, he had been ejected by a ley he had not known was there.
Consoling himself with the thought that knowing a way back to his clan was the main thing and he could return later, Kit sat down in the shadow of an overhanging rock to wait for the sun to go down. Even sitting in the shade, the heat began to wear on him- the abrupt change from winter to high summer was a shock to the system. He closed his eyes and was soon dozing. Sometime later, a distant sound roused him from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes and looked around; everything was as before, but now he was aware of a burning thirst.
Looking down towards the river, he saw the gleam of shining water and decided that nothing would be gained by allowing himself to get dehydrated, so he rose and started down the hillside. He reached the riverbank and, keeping an eye out for the young cave lion, began searching for a place where he might be able to access the water, scrambling through the brush growing thick on the bank. He came to a flat stretch of pebbled shingle on the bank and, kneeling, scooped up handfuls of fresh water, still cool from the mountain springs.
He drank his fill and was just about to rise when he heard a tremendous commotion in the brush behind him. Fearing that Baby had found him, Kit grabbed a good-sized stone from the strand and crouched, ready to fight. Out from the brush bounded two big hounds-lean, long-legged beasts; one grey, one brown-and both of them extremely surprised to see him.
They halted in midchase and froze, heads low, ears flattened, hackles raised.
“Easy, fellas,” said Kit, raising his free hand to show it empty. “Good boys. Stay.” At the sound of his voice, the brown dog raised his snout and gave a single long yowl. The other remained fixed on him, snarling gently.
As if in answer to the first hound’s yelp, Kit heard a thrashing in the wood, and into the clearing stepped a man in a red shirt and leather hunting vest. He was wearing a black beret and carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. He took one look at Kit and breathed, “ Madre de Dios!”
Kit, still clutching the stone, said, “Okay, let’s not get excited. Let’s stay cool.”
At this, the man in the black beret raised the shotgun and pointed it at Kit’s chest. “Que?”
“English?” countered Kit. “Anglais?”
Neither word had any effect. The man, still goggle-eyed at the apparition before him, remained unmoved, the gun unwaveringly aimed at Kit’s chest. This standoff seemed to last an age, and then the man gestured with the gun barrel for Kit to throw down the rock. Kit complied without hesitation.
“Don’t shoot, okay?” he said, raising his hands slowly. “I’m just a traveller. You can put the gun down. I won’t cause any trouble. See?”
The man gestured for Kit to move away from the riverbank, which he did, and Kit was then led at gunpoint out of the brush and into the field beyond. Once in the open, the man gave out a long, rising whistle. It was answered by another in kind. A moment later, a second man appeared from out of the bushy scrub along the river. Like the first, he was dressed in a red shirt and black beret; he also had leather leggings on his trousers and wore a pouch for birds or rabbits or other small game slung over one shoulder.
The second hunter took one look at Kit and said, “Santa Maria!”
The first hunter nodded.
The second hunter approached Kit cautiously. “Donde consiguio usted eso?”
“English?” said Kit. He thought for a moment how to frame the next question, but found that his own facility with English had all but dried up. After so long a time with River City Clan, he could barely make his mouth say the words. “Speak English?” was all he could manage.
The two men looked at each other and then at Kit. The second hunter shrugged and said, “Padre Tadeo.”
“Si,” agreed the other. “Padre Tadeo lo sabra.”
The first hunter motioned with the shotgun once more, and Kit was marched away with the two men behind him and a dog on either side. They followed the curve of the river around a wide bend and came to a bridge joining a dirt road to the highway. Parked at the side of the road was a tiny three-wheeled vehicle of muddy green; it had a cab for the driver and an open bed for haulage. One of the men got into the driver’s seat and the other motioned Kit into the back. Then the man and hounds climbed in with him, the engine fired up, and they juntered off.
They drove a few miles to a village just off the highway. The place was the centre for a small farming community, boasting a single main street lined with a few simple shops, a watering tank for livestock, a greengrocer, and a post office. The signs Kit saw on the sides of buildings and in the store windows were all in Spanish. The main street ended at a town square with a large stone church on one side and, facing it across the square, a rambling stucco edifice with white pillars and black doors. The town square had a large marble fountain, but the fountain was dry.
The three-wheeled truck pulled up outside the church, and the driver beeped the horn and went on beeping it until a priest in a long black cassock emerged and stood on the steps. The driver got out and ran to the priest; the two exchanged a few words, and the clergyman approached the little pickup where Kit sat under guard in the back.
A short man with heavy dark eyebrows above deep-set black eyes, the priest took one look at Kit and crossed himself.
“Hello,” said Kit, having decided his best option was to remain calm and quiet and try not to alarm folk unnecessarily. “Do you speak English?”
The priest’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced at the two holding the shotguns, who nodded knowingly, then said, “I speak English, yes.”
“Good,” said Kit. He made to get out of the vehicle, then glanced again at the two men who still held their shotguns at the ready and decided to stay put for the moment.
The priest hesitated, but the hunter who had discovered Kit nodded his encouragement. “This is El Bruc, senor,” replied the priest. “Who are you?”
“My name is Christopher.” He considered asking where he was and the year, but decided those questions could wait until he knew his captors better. “You can call me Kit.” He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Who are you?”
“I am Father Tadeo.” Waving an expressive hand at the patchwork of furs Kit wore, the little priest said, “ De donde- ah, where came you from?”
“Where did I come from?” echoed Kit. He paused, considering how to answer. “I am from England. I have been, um… I have been exploring.”
“Explorar?” echoed the cleric. Turning to the others, “Es un explorador,” he explained.
The gun-toting hunters nodded. “Explorador,” they murmured. The second one loosed a volley of rapid-fire Spanish at the priest, who then turned to Kit and said, “Ricardo wishes to know why you dress like this.”
Kit glanced down at his shaggy, handmade trousers. The fur was matted and ratty-looking, his stitched- together shoes caked with mud. He stank, and his hair was a mass of wild tangles, his beard a bushy thicket around his face. He suddenly felt very silly wearing this ludicrous outfit. “I lost my clothes.”
The priest relayed this to the hunters; one of them answered, and all three men laughed, whereupon Father
