especially when he gets in a temper – and
do
be careful with theknife.” Malcolm laughed and shoved them toward Groenie. “We don't need extra bits in our stew.”
Still scowling, Groenie led them around the far side of the tent. Staked and roped poles held up a long canvas awning that sheltered benches and tables. They passed a partly butchered deer. Its head hung limply over the edge of a table, a bucket catching the blood that dribbled from a wide slice across its neck.
Groenie thrust bowls into their hands. Then he plunged a ladle into a large cauldron, which hung suspended from a tripod of poles lashed over a small fire, and poured some strong-smelling brown stew into their bowls. Grunting for them to sit, he tossed them each a piece of crusty bread ripped from a large loaf.
Under normal circumstances, Alex would never have eaten such a foul-smelling stew, not even were he under the wrathful glare of his uncle. However, he was ravenous, and he knew his chances of getting anything else to eat were zero-to-none. He raised a spoonful and sniffed it cautiously. Alex knew that the gristly chunks were animal bits, but could not tell which parts of the animal they came from. He wondered numbly if Sandy's thumb was in the pot.
“Offal,” Alex mumbled.
“You're right.” Craig gave an extraloud slurp. “Awful good.”
“No, offal. That means parts of an animal other than meat; you know, like the brain or something … oh, forget it.” Craig was too busy slurping to listen.
Hunger got the better of Alex – he took in a small spoonful. It was chewy and tangy, but not too bad. He tried another.
Before he knew it, both he and Craig were looking down at empty bowls. Still hungry, he glanced over at the cauldron, then at Groenie, who was busy chopping greens. With some trepidation, Alex got up, bowl in hand, and approached Groenie. He was acutely aware of what happened to the Oliver Twist of his comic book when he was in this situation.
“Please, sir, can I have some more?” Alex asked timidly.
Groenie swung up his cutting knife. “How dare ye! That stew has to feed a whole army, and none of the men ever ask for more.”
Dejected, Alex slumped back down.
“Alright, alright, here ye go, then.” Groenie roughly slopped another ladleful into their bowls. “Just this once.” He held up a hand. “Dinnae thank me, I'm going to make ye work double hard for it. See all them buckets? When ye are done stuffing y'r greedy guts, ye can each use a yoke to carry two at a time to fill 'm down by the loch.”
Alex glanced at the buckets. He could do that.
For now, the only sounds were the distant voices of the men, the occasional snort from a faraway horse, the chopping and scraping of Groenie's knife on the cutting block, and the puffing and slurping of Alex and Craig cooling and eating their stew.
Craig looked up from his bowl. “What's William Wallace doing here? Didn't he live long ago?”
“Don't you get it?” Alex wiped his mouth, his hunger finally satisfied enough to talk between sips. “That chamber we were in, the one you thought was a spaceship launcher, it teleported us back in time over seven hundred years.”
“So, we're not even born yet?”
“Of course we're born – we're here, aren't we?”
They mulled this over in silence. Craig picked a gristly bit out of his mouth and laid it carefully next to his bowl. “I wonder if my mum or your parents are here.”
“Who knows?” Alex sighed. He was tired of trying to make sense of it all. Even if his parents were here, how would he find them? What if they were teleported back even further and were really old now? How would he recognize them? The effort to think through these questions made his head hurt. It occurred to him that they might never find a way to get back to their own time … that he and Craig might become two more missing persons, never to be heard from again….
“Water! Now!” Groenie punctuated every word with a stab of his
do
be careful with theknife.” Malcolm laughed and shoved them toward Groenie. “We don't need extra bits in our stew.”
Still scowling, Groenie led them around the far side of the tent. Staked and roped poles held up a long canvas awning that sheltered benches and tables. They passed a partly butchered deer. Its head hung limply over the edge of a table, a bucket catching the blood that dribbled from a wide slice across its neck.
Groenie thrust bowls into their hands. Then he plunged a ladle into a large cauldron, which hung suspended from a tripod of poles lashed over a small fire, and poured some strong-smelling brown stew into their bowls. Grunting for them to sit, he tossed them each a piece of crusty bread ripped from a large loaf.
Under normal circumstances, Alex would never have eaten such a foul-smelling stew, not even were he under the wrathful glare of his uncle. However, he was ravenous, and he knew his chances of getting anything else to eat were zero-to-none. He raised a spoonful and sniffed it cautiously. Alex knew that the gristly chunks were animal bits, but could not tell which parts of the animal they came from. He wondered numbly if Sandy's thumb was in the pot.
“Offal,” Alex mumbled.
“You're right.” Craig gave an extraloud slurp. “Awful good.”
“No, offal. That means parts of an animal other than meat; you know, like the brain or something … oh, forget it.” Craig was too busy slurping to listen.
Hunger got the better of Alex – he took in a small spoonful. It was chewy and tangy, but not too bad. He tried another.
Before he knew it, both he and Craig were looking down at empty bowls. Still hungry, he glanced over at the cauldron, then at Groenie, who was busy chopping greens. With some trepidation, Alex got up, bowl in hand, and approached Groenie. He was acutely aware of what happened to the Oliver Twist of his comic book when he was in this situation.
“Please, sir, can I have some more?” Alex asked timidly.
Groenie swung up his cutting knife. “How dare ye! That stew has to feed a whole army, and none of the men ever ask for more.”
Dejected, Alex slumped back down.
“Alright, alright, here ye go, then.” Groenie roughly slopped another ladleful into their bowls. “Just this once.” He held up a hand. “Dinnae thank me, I'm going to make ye work double hard for it. See all them buckets? When ye are done stuffing y'r greedy guts, ye can each use a yoke to carry two at a time to fill 'm down by the loch.”
Alex glanced at the buckets. He could do that.
For now, the only sounds were the distant voices of the men, the occasional snort from a faraway horse, the chopping and scraping of Groenie's knife on the cutting block, and the puffing and slurping of Alex and Craig cooling and eating their stew.
Craig looked up from his bowl. “What's William Wallace doing here? Didn't he live long ago?”
“Don't you get it?” Alex wiped his mouth, his hunger finally satisfied enough to talk between sips. “That chamber we were in, the one you thought was a spaceship launcher, it teleported us back in time over seven hundred years.”
“So, we're not even born yet?”
“Of course we're born – we're here, aren't we?”
They mulled this over in silence. Craig picked a gristly bit out of his mouth and laid it carefully next to his bowl. “I wonder if my mum or your parents are here.”
“Who knows?” Alex sighed. He was tired of trying to make sense of it all. Even if his parents were here, how would he find them? What if they were teleported back even further and were really old now? How would he recognize them? The effort to think through these questions made his head hurt. It occurred to him that they might never find a way to get back to their own time … that he and Craig might become two more missing persons, never to be heard from again….
“Water! Now!” Groenie punctuated every word with a stab of his
Similar Books
