A Rift in the Fabric of Time

Chapter 3: A Journey of Wonder

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. . . . .

My original plan-if I was forced into coming back by my brute of a husband-was to turn myself into the police, and have them call Frank to pick me up. Now that I had Jamie with me though, what in the name of everything holy was I going to do with him?

I had no money with me, and the coins in Jamie's sporran would raise suspicions to say the least. Perhaps I could take his currency-and his dirk if he would part with it- to some prestigious antique dealer and get a tidy sum for them. Bloody hell, why did the clot-head have to follow me? A better question would be, why did he have to be so damned honorable in the first place? None of this would've happened if he would just have let it rest. I could be in my surgery right now, stitching up wounds or traipsing about in the brush, collecting herbs.

. . . . .

My reverie abruptly ended, as after the car sped past, Jamie said, "I didna see a horse pullin' that thin' down the road. How does it move?"

"That thing is called an automobile. It operates under its own power. I'm no expert on the subject ... something about a combustion engine, I believe. It runs on gasoline." I smiled inwardly, remembering the men discussing, well bragging actually, about such and such horsepower of their vehicles.

Jamie frowned, struggling to process all the new information, I suppose. It was one thing to blend into the goings on of the past. At least that was somewhat familiar, but walking head-on into the future was most probably mind boggling.

"Gasoline?"

"Yes, it's a fuel. You know, like whale oil that you use in your lanterns, except that this oil is pumped out of the ground."

Several vehicles zipped on by, and each time, Jamie jerked back in surprise. One in particular was a delivery truck with a sign emblazoned on its chassis reading Brodie's Dairy. Jamie looked at me while I explained, "It's a milk truck."

Stopping in his tracks, Jamie sputtered, "D'ye mean to tell me as they take their cows into the village in such a way? How can the animals breathe in there?"

I burst out laughing. "No, silly. I assure you there are no cows in that truck. The milk is in bottles and delivered to the homes, and to the markets."

"No one in Inverness owns a cow, then?"

"Not hardly. We're not allowed to shelter animals on the premises, except for dogs and cats, unless of course one's home is out in the country."

He nodded in comprehension. "Ah ...

"But I dinna ken how ye keep the milk from spoilin'."

Intertwining my fingers with his, I lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles, then taking a breath, dove into a lecture. "Well ... we keep all our perishable food in what's called a refrigerator. It's like a large cabinet, with coils of pipes in back of it where Freon-another kind of gas, circulates somehow within the outer covering, preserving it all by keeping it very cold."

Our discussions went on without interruption until I observed a dark green Buick with a crumpled fender, and one broken tail light. It had pulled up next to a large tree where a white sign hung. The man had gotten out, looked at the notice and then went on. He must've executed a U-turn while I was thus engaged in imparting information to my baffled Scotsman, because a few minutes later he appeared behind us again, and slowed down. He was no doubt curious about our unusual attire.

No matter-we continued our trek toward the town with me chattering on all the while, extolling the virtues of 20th century living. My poor Scotty kept nodding his head, too overwhelmed to comment, I imagine.