Disclaimer for social media: This is historical fiction for entertainment only.

Dateline: 1811, Paris, France

          A puff of dust kicked up as the time machine came to rest in a narrow lane.  Mackenzie rubbed her nose, but Nik sneezed three times straight.

          “Where are we?”  Sean looked around.

          The sun slanted low.  Rows of grapes extended along the hill in both directions.  They had landed in a pathway that crossed the rows at right angles.  Based on the tangled mass of runners that trailed off each grape vine, it was late spring.

          “Help me hide this.”  Nik took one side of the sleigh, and Sean grabbed the other.  Mackenzie held the vines aside for them to push the machine into a row.  Nik pulled binoculars from the basket under the satellite dish and draped some vines over it.  Then he pointed down the lane.

          “Let’s see if we can get a view of the valley.  I need to know where we are so I can calibrate the machine.”

          The setting sun gave a rosy glow to the vineyard.  They stopped at the edge, where they had a clear view of a river winding its way through a city below.  While Nik adjusted the focus on the field glasses, Makenzie and Sean turned to take in the mountain behind them. 

          Rising above the vineyard was a compound of ancient stone buildings.  The sun glinted against panes of glass in the tall, narrow windows, and the flying buttresses that held up the walls were straight out of a textbook.  She took out her phone and snapped a picture.

          “It must be some kind of cathedral,” Mackenzie said quietly.  “But what happened to the dome?”

          Sean followed her gaze to the jagged edges of stone that rose into the steel blue eastern sky.  “Looks like they had a cave-in.  Say, do you hear singing?”

          She tilted her head to listen.  A chorus of men’s voices floated on the wind.  It reminded her of the time she visited the cathedral in La Paz with her abuela. 

          “They’re singing the Kyrie, or Lord have mercy.  That’s probably a Catholic church.”

          “An abbey, most likely,” Nik said.  “Montmartre, unless I miss my guess.  That places us sometime before 1790, because it was destroyed in the French Revolution.”

          “How can you be sure?”  Sean scratched his beard, which made Mac’s arm itch in sympathy. 

          She brushed her hand over it to wipe away the sensation, and encountered several tiny, raised bumps.  “Oh, no,” she muttered, remembering the poison ivy from Pennsylvania.

          “Do you see that island in the river?” Nik was saying.

          Mackenzie squinted in the sunset, which had turned the river into a ribbon of liquid gold. 

          “You mean the one with the big building in the middle?” Sean asked. 

          Nik handed him the binoculars.  “Look carefully at that building.”

          The sunset tinted the westward sky orange, on its way to crimson.  Mackenzie took several sunset photos.  Finally, Sean shrugged.  “I don’t get it.  You try, Mac.”

          The lenses were zoomed in tight, so it took a minute to find the island in the field.  When the building came into view, she gasped.  Twin, square-topped towers framed a circular window, whose multi-faceted panes reflected the westering sun.  “Notre Dame Cathedral!  How could we possibly be in France?”

          Nik took the binoculars back and wound the neck strap around the center.  “I guess that tomahawk damaged the directional controls, as well as the time settings.  We need to find a newspaper, though, or some other way to get our bearings.  Let’s try walking toward Paris.”

          “Won’t someone see the time machine?” Sean asked, glancing back at the abbey vineyard. 

          “Not likely,” Mackenzie said.  “After vespers, the monks should have supper and go to their rooms to meditate.  As long as we clear out by morning, we’re fine.”

          *  *  *

          A light evening breeze ruffled Mackenzie’s thick brown ponytail.  She pulled out the hair tie to bundle it back together.  While she combed with her fingers, a waitress in a white peasant shirt and long skirt set three steaming bowls of stew on the table.  The candle in the middle of the table flickered as she reached around it.

          “Merci.”  Nik said, pulling a leather pouch from his pocket.  “Avez-vous un journal?”

          She took the coin he offered without a second glance.  “Oui.  Donne moi une minute.”[1]  With a swirl of her skirt, she left.

          “How many languages do you speak, anyway?” Sean asked.  “I had so much trouble with high school Spanish!”

          “Just don’t let the waitress hear you speak English.  France is at war with Britain in this century.”  Nik sampled his stew.  “Mmm.  Ratatouille.”

          “Wasn’t that a Pixar flick?” Mackenzie fished a hunk of squash from the reddish liquid and savored it.  There was definitely a hit of beef broth in the mix, but she decided not to mention it.  Sean would definitely gross out.  “Where’d you get the coin purse?”

          Nik smirked.  “Courtesy of Thomas Jefferson, himself.”

          “Wait, you picked his pocket?” Sean said admiringly.

          Mackenzie wasn’t sure it was so admirable.  She frowned at her soup.

          “It’s a little trick I learned in Tudor-era London.  All part of my doctoral research.  Quiet now, she’s coming.”

          The waitress returned with a folded paper.  “C’est de la semaine dernière.”

          “Ça ira.  Merci.”[2] 

          Nik waited until she left again before he shook the page open.  Mackenzie turned her attention to the stew, which tasted better than it looked.  Sean slurped his loudly, and Nik ate with one hand while he read.

          “I don’t get it,” he said finally.  “It says here that Louis the 17th was crowned king last week.”

          “So?”  Sean turned the paper so he could read the date line.  “I can’t read the month, but it looks like 1811.”

          “1811?” Mackenzie repeated.  “Wasn’t that the middle of Napoleon’s reign?”

          Nik blew his nose into a napkin.  “Exactly.  There was no Louis 17.  Sixteen was killed in the French Revolution, his son died in captivity, and his brother took the name Louis the 18th when Bonaparte was deposed.”

          “What does it mean?” Now Sean sounded worried, too.

          “It means we need to leave.  Finish your soup.”

[1] Translation: Nik: Thanks.  Do you have a newspaper? 

Waitress: Yes.  Give me a minute.

[2] Translation: Waitress:  It’s from last week. 

Nik:  That’s fine.  Thanks.

Any resemblance to living persons is accidental. Resemblance to current events is pure imagination. Interaction with actual history is sheer conjecture. (The rest of us already knew this, right?)

Footnotes for chapter 4 can be found here.

Want to read the next chapter? Sign up for email notifications. Visit the index page and see if another chapter has been published. Or join the conversation on Facebook. It’s a great way to ask questions or make comments directly to the author.

Gentle reminder: ours is a family-friendly and respectful community. Some of us have kids who read our page.

Copyright © 2020 by Carolyn Van Gorkom

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

Cover illustration: cropped flag from a larger oil painting by Ferris, Jean Leon Gerome, Artist. Betsy Ross,/ J.L.G. Ferris. , ca. 1932. Cleveland, Ohio: The Foundation Press, Inc., July 28. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/2002719536/.  Public domain.  No known restrictions on publication. No renewal in Copyright office, 11/91.