Chapter Three
A quick glance around the room and Kaitlyn was ready to choke with apprehension.
The place screamed medieval.
The packed lodge she stood in was warm and faintly musty. Ingrained aromas of ale and of tobacco mixed with the smell of sizzling onions wafted about the busy room and, to the side of the building and nestled within a large stone built fireplace, a deer’s carcass turned golden brown on a spit above the roaring fire.
Blimey, how civilized, she thought, watching as a woman fed a young child mashed food out of a small wooden bowl. The baby sat in a handmade wooden high chair. She was plump and clean, her blond hair held in two adorable pigtails and, when those tiny bright blue eyes glanced her way, Kaitlyn could see she had full cupid lips that were used to smiling.
After meeting Rose, somehow Kaitlyn had imagined it would be far more primitive than this. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The conversations that rose and fell quickly dimmed to a hush as all heads turned toward her. Suddenly Kaitlyn couldn’t breathe. Under Digger’s trousers her legs began to shake and, in desperation, she sought out the friendliest of faces to greet first. Her subject, a toddler no older than three, stood picking his nose and wiping his soiled finger on the hem of his father’s outdated jacket.
Don’t grimace. Don’t grimace!
At her side, Digger clasped her hand in his and pulled her near. "Relax," he said, his hold tightening. Kaitlyn shot him her best look of gratitude.
In the next second, the thunk, thunk of walking cane against suspended floorboards announced Rose’s dramatic entrance into the lodge. When the old woman was certain she’d gained the attention of all those present, she inflated her chest and addressed the room.
“This here be Kaitlyn. Poor blighter be a greenhorn,” she declared to every straining ear, her skinny, knotted fingers wrapping about her cane’s handle like a spider about its prey. A few gasps of shock and excited whispers erupted about the room. “This is her home now, and we are her family, so let’s be giving her a warm welcome.”
Kaitlyn wasn’t too sure she would agree with Rose’s choice of words, but, hopelessly out of place, she was determined to do whatever needed to find her way home.
Voices clattered with excitement, and hands reached to shake hers as Dinger led Kaitlyn through the crowd to a large oblong table.
“Sit here,” he ordered, adding, “put your feet up. I’ll get you some grub.”
Blimey, did Digger actually care about the condition of her feet? Kaitlyn tried to remember a time when Seth had been so worried about her health, and came up wanting.
You’re doing it again. You’re thinking about Seth. Stop it.
Another child poked his head out from behind his mother’s wide skirt. His freckled face was round and healthy and his ruffled hair was the colour of smoked peat. Stone grey eyes fixed upon her feet like a mussel upon a sea rock. Curiosity got the better of him. Slipping from his mother’s watchful hand, the boy slithered past several individuals to sit cross-legged before her, playing with the laces on her shoes.
Kaitlyn’s hunger raged on and her stomach rumbled loudly. To her embarrassment, those who stood within earshot roared with laughter at the sound.
After wiping her hands on her stained apron, one portly lady with dimpled cheeks and a face accustomed to laughter spoke above the hullabaloo. "See? Didn't I tell you she'd be hungry, Pop-Wilaby? The new ones are always hungry."
Another woman leaned forward and pulled the boy away from Kaitlyn’s tangled shoelaces.
Pop-Wilaby stood half the size of his well-rounded wife. With a slight dip of his head, he took Kaitlyn's hand and kissed it, his moist lips lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then he grinned, revealing his brown teeth, stained from chewing tobacco.
Kaitlyn was officially repulsed.
"I think you're right, wife." A leering smile settled upon his lips. "By the sounds of it, she's ravenous."
A hefty cut of venison landed on Kaitlyn's plate with such force it sent a small potato rolling across the table. Digger paid the fleeing vegetable no heed as he pushed Pop-Wilaby out of his way, straddled the chair next to hers, and handed her a slice of buttered bread.
"Hungry?" he asked. She nodded and took the bread. "Best eat it all up then," he grinned. “How are the feet?”
Inside Digger’s borrowed army boots, Kaitlyn’s feet were enveloped in several pairs of darned socks. “There will be hell to pay tomorrow,” she replied.
“I’ll get Rose to make you up some balm. That should help.”
There was no need. Kaitlyn could make some. Well, that’s if her feet allowed her to walk through the woods in search of herbs.
"Why all the candles?" she asked. The delicious flavour of melting butter sent her taste buds wild.
Digger shot her a sideways glance. "We don't have electricity."
"You haven't any telephones either, have you?"
"Sorry, girl, we've not got much of anything in this rat-hole. We've no phones, no cars, no computers." As Digger spoke, he counted off the missing items on his fingers. "No TV, no newspapers, no credit cards, no money, which is just as well as we've no shops. No gas or petrol, no way of getting home and no fast foods," he sighed and ran both hands through his unruly hair. Digger fell quiet for a moment, and then continued, "But more importantly, we've no off-the-peg clothing, so make sure you look after your feet. In this place decent shoes are a Godsend."
"Lost, chased by Gaffes and now in need of good shoes?" Her voice was laced with arsenic. Now he tells me.
The brows above his eyes drew together in concern. "Bottom line is, you'll be hard pushed to find any modern gadgets here, except soap," Digger concluded, his smile a mile wide.
Only, as far as Kaitlyn was aware, soap wasn’t a modern invention.
"And the villagers," Kaitlyn mumbled, her eyes fixed on those assembled around her. "Where do they come from? And why have I never heard of this place before?"
"It's a long story." Digger's hand found hers and, clinging to it, she turned toward him. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Rose, who dragged her stool nosily across the cabin's wood floor. Kaitlyn glanced up to discover the old woman warming her hands before the heat of the fire.
"Now where the blazes did I put me hurting hand remedy? It's here somewhere," Rose mumbled. She dug deep within her great pockets and produced a small brown bottle. With her few remaining teeth, Rose bit into the cork stopper, tugged it free and shook the last few drops into her open palm. "Fat lot of good that's going to be! It's empty! Now what's an old woman to do?"
"You have no modern medicines?" Kaitlyn felt obliged to ask. The old woman shook her head. Kaitlyn thought as much. "Have you tried horsetail?
“Be it a hurting-hand remedy?”
Kaitlyn nodded, accepting a cup of hot broth that was handed to her. “It's used for rheumatoid arthritis."
Deciding it was too hot to eat, Kaitlyn cradled the cup in both of her hands, enjoying the feel of the heat penetrating into her flesh.
Rose's eyes blazed as she pulled her stool nearer the fire. "Think you know about herbs then, do you?"
"A bit." Kaitlyn replied, blotting out the hefty weight of the stares of those who congregated around her.
Rose lit her pipe and puffed a few times before speaking. "How about, first thing in the morning, you help me find some of that horsetail stuff?"
"But I'm leaving first thing."
"With your pussing feet? I wouldn't put too much faith in leaving." Rose blew several perfectly formed smoke rings into the air. "Digger, you best be telling our new friend the God’s honest about this place."
With one hand pressed against the ache in his side, Digger turned upon his chair and studied Kaitlyn's face. The scent of warm ale was pungent. Reaching for her mug, he offered her a refill. She refused, but he filled it regardless.
"Take my word for it. You'll need it when you've heard what I have to say," he offered, his face devoid of all expression. "You've slipped through a portal and ended up here, just like the rest of us. See, this place isn't on any map. You won't see signposts for it and you won't see it from the outside. People could drive straight past and never know we're here. We're dressed differently because we're snatched from different periods in time. We don't even know what year it is."
"Don't be silly," she blurted, "that's nonsense."
"And up until last night you didn’t know Gaffes existed,” Digger reminded her. “You’ve experienced what lives in the shadows. Other than blisters, what do you think tomorrow will bring? Now do you understand why I couldn't let you go?"
Digger was every inch the military professional at work and try as she might, Kaitlyn could not control the shaking that took her.
She reached for her thigh and pinched it until she felt sure she had left a bruise. Still, she never woke up from what was surely a nightmare. Kaitlyn hugged her arms about her belly and nodded her head in resentful resignation.
"What year are you from?" Digger reached out a hand to soothe her.
Kaitlyn linked her fingers with his and held on with all her might. "2004."
"For me it's 1991. And, what about Pop-Wilaby here? What year's he from?"
"Me and the missus are from 1888," Pop-Wilaby said, his brown teeth almost invisible in the dim light.
Digger continued, "Rose is from the fifteenth century and Elowan claims she was born in 1916." Digger edged nearer as he spoke. "Easy, it'll be all right. Try not to look so worried."
"How did I get here?" Nerves caused Kaitlyn's voice to tremble.
"I wish I had the answers, but I don't. I've often thought this place might be hidden on the other side of a shadow. We're here, but we can't be seen."
Kaitlyn shook her head. "No, that can't be. There must be a way out."
Digger inhaled before replying. "If there was, I'd have left this place years ago." He fidgeted in his chair as he spoke.
"Are you sure? Have you tried to escape?"
"Too many times.”
"And how did you get here?"
"I was part of an eight man unit," he replied, his voice terse. "Out on covert ops in Chechnya. We were securing the Ingushetia border, but somehow I lost me mates and stumbled into Tearlach. I tried to get out time and again. Never could though.
Sometimes simply comprehending the truth, Kaitlyn realised, could be as painful as having a tooth extracted.
Without novacaine.
Digger’s mouth was moving, but Kaitlyn was no longer listening. There was no need to, for she knew the reality of her situation. Kaitlyn was no fool. If there was a way out, then an SAS soldier like Digger would have found it. She also sensed that if he could have taken her home, he would have. She could see that truth in his eyes as clearly as she could smell his musky scent and feel his fingers entwined with her own.
Her free hand fell to her wounded leg. Through the trousers she wore, she felt the rigid bumps.
Scabs healing over five long claw marks.
That could have been my throat, she thought. Kaitlyn snapped her hand away from her leg and fidgeted in her chair, remembering the heat of the Gaffe’s breath as it fell moist against her skin. If Digger hadn’t come along, the Gaffe would have ripped me to pieces.
Digger tugged gently on her hand, pulling her away from her thoughts. “Still with me?”
“Until I find a way out of here,” she mumbled, “yes.”
Digger ignored her statement. “Bottom line is, we're all trapped in time. Over the years, we've built this village and have taught each other skills from our own time in history. You name it, hunting, traps, cloth making, growing food or crops. Hell, the Scot can even make bullets for me gun."
Rose gently tapped her medicine pipe once, and then twice. A heartbeat later she walloped it hard against the hearth and smiled at those who flinched. Having gained the attention of everyone, she snapped her fingers and waited for Elowen to hand her a large bag containing her knitting.
"You're in Tearlach now,” Rose said, her eyes scanning Kaitlyn’s fingers that wrapped about Digger’s. A smile twitched at her lips. “What you once called your home, well, it's all gone now."
Rose focused on her knitting as she continued, "Best we understand it, the realm, this place, got dumped here by accident. When the world was made, whoever glued it all together only did half a job. They forgot to sew all the blooming edges up properly, and somehow we slipped through. And every now and then," Rose eyed Kaitlyn's defiant face, "some poor soul falls into the bits of stuff that weren't sewn up in the first place. Heaven only knows how many more holes there are out there."
"That's if there are any," Digger added.
A small child bottom crawled over the floor and hugged Digger’s bent leg. Reaching for her, he lifted the child onto his lap and settled her tiny head against his wide chest.
Rose dropped a stitch, groaned, fiddled with her wool, and continued to knit. "This place is governed by a magic not of your own world. A day doesn't go by without something mysterious happening, like our Digger saving your skin."
"What exactly did he save me from?" Kaitlyn asked, remembering Digger's yell and a growl that hung in the air.
"One of Stabler's lot, I reckons. Gaffes, tortured souls with grubby skin, hairy backs and beady little eyes that terrify the sternest of men. Never mind what the fangs and claws can do to a person's disconcerting bowels. Lucky our Digger got to you in time. Otherwise-" Rose's voice trailed off. "I've seen many a thing that weren't natural. Reality, well, it's stretched thin here. There'll be no getting out either. They've all tried, even our Digger. So don't you be thinking anything daft like escaping. If you do, you might meet your ghost or cause someone else to meet theirs."
The sound of a muffled cough brought Kaitlyn's attention to Digger's solid form. He sat with his forearms resting upon his legs, his fingers interlinked and hovering above his opened knees, and apparently watching her every move.
Clean-shaved and smelling of faint lavender, Digger looked nothing like the lout she'd imagined. For one, he had no pub-brawling scars or crooked nose, both traits that all self-respecting beer-swilling thugs carried. Light from the fire highlighted the red in his short-cropped hair, goatee and ruddy complexion, pulling the three together in a warm amber glow. No doubt about it, Digger was a huge man. He was broad, his shoulders level and his back straight. His arms were sculpted with muscles and the fine hairs that covered them were golden against his bronzed, freckled skin. The hair on his head stuck straight up like the quills on a sun burnt porcupine. From their arduous hike to the village, she knew his legs were strong. The fingers on his large hands were agile, and the realization that she was stirred by his muscular appearance completely astonished her.
Hang on! Where had that come from?
"Are you all right?" he leaned in and whispered. The corners of his mouth twitched with the promise of a smile.
"Do I look all right?" she replied just as quietly. Little black dots danced before her eyes. This was all too much to absorb.
"I've not seen a girl from me own time since I got here." He tucked a wayward strand of Kaitlyn's hair behind her ear and studied the side of her face as he continued, "To me you look smashing."
Boiled red, she strove to control the butterflies that whirled in the pit of her belly by drowning them in her warm ale.
"Want a refill?" Digger grinned as she ran the back of her hand over her mouth.
Kaitlyn nodded and motioned for Digger to hurry. There were too many things to discuss, and Kaitlyn wasn’t sure where to start so she opted for the obvious. "Digger is a strange name," she said as she finished guzzling her third pint.
"It's me nickname."
"What's your real name?" For a moment she thought her voice might have slurred.
"That'd be telling," he winked in a roguish manner.
His trademark no doubt, Kaitlyn decided before replying, "I’m a nurse. Why don't you show me your stitches?"
Digger was staring at her, his expression delighted and already nodding his head in agreement. "It's been a while since a girl asked me to get my kit off," he joked, "but all right." Digger loosened his shirt and lifted the cotton material to one side.
The wound was puffy and red and covered with a sticky substance that would have to go. After touching it, the tips of Kaitlyn's fingers glued together.
“Do you have to poke so hard?" Digger said, throwing the last of his ale down the back of his throat.
"What is this stuff?"
Dressed in an exquisite green dress, Elowen sauntered across the room, snaked her arm about Digger's shoulder and whispered in his ear. The ruby ring she wore glinted in the soft light. Then she lifted her face, ran her middle finger over her full, lower lip and looked down upon Kaitlyn in condescension.
Fidgeting in his chair, Digger tried to ease Elowen off his lap, but the woman was having none of it.
With vice-like tension, she held onto his shoulders and said, “It’s spiders’ web,” as she spoke she settled herself upon Digger’s lap, nuzzling her nose in his neck.
Dinger looked to Kaitlyn apologetically.
An unexpected pang of possessiveness grasped Kaitlyn and, for a moment, she had the compulsive urge to shove Elowen clean to the floor. He’s my friend, Kaitlyn screeched telepathically to the woman. He saved me, not you, so clear off!
Aloud she said, "But that’s not been used in centuries. This is a joke, right?" Kaitlyn rubbed the sticky substance off her hands and tried to make order out of the chaos of her thoughts.
Then, without a word of warning, a voice said from her side. “Do you not use spiders’ web in your own time?”
The vibrant Scot stood before her dressed in Scotland's finest ruby-red tartan. It wrapped from his waist over his bare shoulder where it was held in place by an oval silver broach. A Gaelic motto ran about the small engraving at its centre. A warrior's sword hung from a belt about his waist, and a long dagger was sheathed in leather and strapped to his bare calf.
Without question, the Scot's appearance whispered of distant times and long forgotten Highland battles.
It was the tail end of a very long day and Kaitlyn was too overwhelmed to move.
The chair Digger sat on scraped over the wooden floorboards as he quickly stood to greet the man. “MacRae. Welcome back. Catch anything on your travels?” He threw his arms open wide in a friendly gesture.
"Naught but a ruddy cold." The tall man rolled the r’s off his tongue as slowly as honey drizzled from a spoon. “I missed your company on this journey, lad.” He greeted Digger with a firm handshake and a hefty pat on the back. "The witch tells me you were injured by a Gaffe?" Then he stilled and looked directly at Kaitlyn. "Och, but first, who's our new friend?" he asked, a smile settling on his mouth.
The Scot jerked his hand forward for Kaitlyn to shake. "This is Dubhshith MacRae.” Digger said, looking on as Kaitlyn stared at the giant Scot’s hand.
One of the Scot’s eyes twitched shut and he waved his hand before her perplexed face, his gesture urging her to introduce herself. “Come on now, Sassenach. Dinna be rude. Tell us your God fearing name?”
“Kaitlyn.” She took his hand and shook it, noticing it was chafed and calloused, obviously used to hard labour. “I suppose you're going to tell me how you got here, too,” she mocked, suddenly wishing she hadn't. Rudeness never had walked hand in hand with Kaitlyn.
'Well, now that you've mentioned it, I will. I was out fighting the British. We had those red coated bastards turning on their heels.” The Scotsman ignored the condemning heckles from his peers as he continued, “It was a very grand battle indeed. I chased this one fellow down to Loch Duich.” The Scot emphasized each word with gaping eyes and wild hand movements. “I was intent on letting him feel the edge of my sword.” He made a dramatic stabbing movement toward Kaitlyn and smiled as she flinched, nearly falling from her stool. “And I would have, too, had I not been waylaid. This one man clubbed me over the head and, when I woke, I found myself in Rose's very capable hands.” The Scot held his head. “It's a good thing our wee witch Rose knows a thing or two about the magic of the world, Kaitlyn. Otherwise, you'd be talking to a very dead man.”
“Magic and witchcraft?” Kaitlyn asked, her voice racked high with nerves despite her sudden growing excitement. “Gaffes and new worlds?”
The Scot nodded. “Aye, lass, all as real as you or I.”

Dinger watched the Scot with the trained eye of an elite soldier. Each nervous twitch of his eye, wave of his battle-scarred hand or squaring of his wide shoulders seemed a flirtatious invitation for Kaitlyn.
That was the problem with the Scot. He couldn’t keep his sporran on.
Digger was having none of it. “So, tell me, Scot,” Digger interrupted. “Any signs of movement to the east?" Digger slipped his arm about MacRae’s broad shoulders and led him away from Kaitlyn and to a quiet corner of the room.
The protection of Rose and her spell book was paramount to Digger and he trusted the Scot more than most. The Scot, too, had fought many a bloody battle. He was a fine warrior and steadfast in his determination to eliminate Stabler before he brought terror and death to their peaceful village.
Digger watched as the Scot glanced back at Kaitlyn, his dark brows pulled together in a questioning frown, and Digger knew he'd have to explain Kaitlyn's sudden appearance.
"When’d she get here?" the Scot asked, nodding politely to Kaitlyn as she limped with Rose about the lodge, meeting the villagers one by one. "And more to the point," the Scot looked Digger straight in the eye, "where’d you find her?"
"In the mountains to the west," Digger offered. "A Gaffe tracked her down. The bastard thing nearly tore her to pieces."
"Well, it’s a blessing that your paths met in time," the Scot ventured, his eyes running the length of Kaitlyn's body. “Otherwise we’d have another Gaffe to contend with.” A look of understanding passed between the two warriors. “Is she spoken for?” Dubhshith MacRae asked, rubbing the palms of his hands together.
Hang on! She wasn’t a lump of meat in a butcher’s window.
Digger glared at his friend, and then he spluttered, “The girl’s only just got here!”
“Och, I’m a weary soldier, lad,” the Scot countered, his eye twitching. “And what better way to celebrate a homecoming than to jump in bed with a nice, warm woman?”
Truly unbelievable.
An unfamiliar pang of jealously bubbled in Digger’s stomach. Unaccustomed to this feeling, he quickly blocked the Scot's view of Kaitlyn. "She's an old friend." Digger stated, his voice stern, his eyes unwavering.
The Scot's eyebrows shot skyward. He waited until Kaitlyn walked out of earshot before speaking. "An old friend, you say? You’ve known her but a few days, boy. Are trusting friendships forged so fast?"
"Are you questioning my judgment, MacRae?"
MacRae’s cobalt eyes narrowed. "Not I," he recovered, a grin playing at his mouth. "I was merely suggesting she seems too young to be an old friend. Just how old is she?"
"Old enough," Digger stated. "Brief me on what movement you saw?" He steered the subject away from Kaitlyn. Digger’s affairs were his own and he didn't take kindly to explaining them.
With a frequent bobble of his head, the Scot said, "We searched for three weeks, but never saw one sign of those plagued mongrels. If the Gaffes are on the move, then they're not approaching from the north. We've laid traps and blocked the gorge through the mountains, too. If they come from the east or the south, we'll know in advance."
Digger patted his friend on the shoulder and exhaled. "I met resistance in the west," he said, lifting the tail of his shire to show the Scot the wound about his waist. "Two days hike from here. It was a small search party." He looked into his friend's eyes. "One escaped."
The Scot rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his whiskers. "Aye, well, be thankful you were on foreign soil when they found you. Otherwise we'd be running again."

Kaitlyn did not consider herself an emotional woman, but the past few days’ events had left her in shock. Physically drained, she turned and leaned on the table behind her, wondering if she would ever get used to the new sights around her. Past the array of unknown faces, she could see Digger, standing some ten feet away talking to the strange Scotsman. He rubbed his hands over his deadpan face, shook Dubhshith MacRae’s hand, then turned, his weary eyes searching through the crowed lodge. When his gaze met hers he smiled, quickly making his way over toward her.
By the time he reached her, Elowen was clinging to his arm.
"It's late,” he offered, watching as Kaitlyn stifled a yawn. “I'll show you to a spare cabin. It ain't up to much, but it'll have to do."
Rejected, Elowen glared up at him, then, with a twist of her long skirt, glided out of the room.
Kaitlyn barely had enough time to say goodnight before Digger led her out of the lodge and over the darkened village green to a wooden structure. There he opened the hut's door and ushered her inside.
The cabin was dank and cold, its floor uneven with rotting boards. The ceiling was littered with cobwebs and Kaitlyn could make out the occasional star that shone through the gaps in the rafters.
Overall it was charming.
"In a few days I'll have finished putting the new roof on the cabin next to me own. Until then this'll have to do." Digger lit the hearth's fire as he spoke.
"You think I'll be here that long?"
He gave a simple nod then said, "You need anything, holler. I'm just over there." Digger pointed to his cabin partially hidden behind the strange looking object in the middle of the village green.
"And do me a favour. Lock your door. Pop-Wilaby's wife chucks him out every time he drinks too much. He has a habit of sleeping the booze off here." With that, he turned and marched toward Elowen who waited beside his hut.
The light from the moon shone over Digger as he strode away. The gloomy contours of branches swaying in the wind merged with his own dark silhouette, casting demonic shapes onto his shadow, and momentarily giving it the appearance of the Gaffe that tried to kill her the day before.
Kaitlyn quivered and slammed her door shut.

Kaitlyn Ann Waterhouse. Digger knew this woman. He stared at the photo he'd taken from her purse the previous evening. Kaitlyn stood smiling at the camera. Her late brother, Stephen – Digger’s friend and comrade for many years - stood next to her.
Jesus Christ, Digger thought as he rubbed at the back of his neck. How the hell did she get here?
He looked to his soldiers' jacket that hung over the back of a chair. A second photo of Kaitlyn, one that her brother had given to him shortly before his death, was nestled in its chest pocket.
From the moment he shoved her from the Gaffe’s path, Kaitlyn had ignited a yearning within him. An emotion he'd not experienced since listening to Steve read her letters and share her photos with him. After Steve's death, Digger had forwarded his belongings back to his family, but he'd been unable to part with Kaitlyn's letters and photos.
Those were his, and he treasured them.
He was certain she hadn't remembered him. Before they found themselves in the midst of the Gulf war, Steve had taken Digger home to meet his family. At the time, Kaitlyn was just fifteen. She had a boyfriend, was studying for her exams, and adored her brother. What would she think if she knew he'd been unable to save Steve's life? Would she blame him? Digger wasn't prepared to find out. With the thought lingering in his mind, he hid the photograph with the letters that she'd sent her brother back under his floorboards.