Stretched Across Time: Braided Dimensions

By Marie Judson

Stretched Across Time is the second book in the Braided Dimensions series by Marie Judson, a fantasy adventure that spans centuries and continents. Kay, a modern-day weaver and mother of two, has a secret: she can travel to ancient Wales through her loom. There, she meets Baird, a bard and shapeshifter who shares her connection to the magic of the land. But their love is threatened by the evil mage Galfride, who seeks to use Kay's power for his own dark purposes. As Kay struggles to balance her life in both worlds, she must also face the dangers of the past, the mysteries of the runes, and the fate of the Thirteen, a group of warriors who protect the balance of time. Stretched Across Time is a captivating story of romance, magic, and destiny, that will keep you turning the pages until the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indies United Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781644567081

Marie Judson

Writer Marie Judson lives north of San Francisco with her daughter and two cats. Languages and the mind are her passions and she has three Masters degrees to prove it. An ardent fantasy reader since early adolescence, her other passions are singing, dream work, and saving our planet. Follow her blog at mariejudson.com for her shares on fiction as well as the dark and mysterious world of the unconscious.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gazing into my backyard, I remembered stepping from the oak at the deserted yard on the other side of town—the portal from medieval time. having been one with the tree left effervescence running through my veins. My fingers sought my new Ing ring, crafted by Duff’s huge hands and recently bestowed on me by Aelfwyn. As I touched its soft silver, I sensed, again, the slow crackling of growing things.

Oz circled my ankle. I squatted and rubbed his black-and-white coat until he lifted his tail with a rumbling purr. He flipped over, offering his tummy. I was inside a tree, I told him, stroking the bunny-soft underfur. You’re my main confidante, aren’t you? Pathetic.

Chuckling, I stepped inside my house and strode to the loom which had been covered by a colorful Mexican blanket for months. Worried about the dangers, I’d withdrawn from traveling back in time by stopping my weaving, storing the loom, and hiding the yarns and fabrics out of sight. Hating to lie to my children, I’d attempted to cast that world aside. Even forsaking Baird, the medieval bard who’d occupied so much of my waking thought in recent months.

But could I deny a magic that allowed me to shift into spirit form so I could be part of an oak tree? Could I reject an ability to sense every living thing: hummingbird thoughts, the vibrations of leaves growing? And the fabrics I wove: the sense of rightness when I wore them, the subtle patterns that emerged from my hands. Was I never to create them again?

Moving to the loom, I dragged off the cover and ran my hand down the oak wood frame. Kneeling, I pressed against the short length of cloth I’d started. What had I planned to make? I suspected I would only know when I threw the shuttle again. Searching for yarns to add, I found the basket was empty.

I panicked. In my effort to bring normalcy to my life, had I misplaced my magical yarns? Thrown some away? I searched the house, rummaging in drawers and cupboards. At last, in the hall closet where I’d made a sort of mini-apothecary with a tansu of herb drawers, I found balls of yarn, tangled skeins, and fleece not yet spun.

In the bedroom, I dug around until I gathered all the clothes I’d made from cloth I’d woven since gaining Kyna’s memories, on my first trip to medieval time: leggings, shirts, pants, one skirt, underclothing like Kyna’s that I’d fashioned from memory. Kyna, my twin who was a skilled healer and wielder of magic. I pulled out sheets of fabric stored on the closet shelf.

When I’d explored every possible hiding place, I dropped yarns and fibers into the tenth -century baskets by the loom. I stacked the clothing and fabric on my worktable, then brought my boots from the screen porch and set them near the rest. Energy—almost solid in form—built in that part of the room. Inklings of new patterns arose in my imagination. Did I have enough fiber? I didn’t think so. How would I get more? Obtaining the charmed threads had never been a deliberate act on my part. Like many things in my life, they just showed up when needed.

So, the loom and weaving were back. I would accept the role of Ancient Wales in my life, despite the dangers. Horror-filled memories of the past few days—the powerful mage, Galfride, clawing at my mind; the sickness that ripped through me as I escaped him; the dark abyss of despair that swamped me as I lay by a hearth in Kyna’s twelfth-century refuge—ran through my head.

I wrenched my mind to more positive aspects of my time travel: the column of light I’d learned to build just that day, that had brought me into the oak. Pure, sweet energy coursed through me, surging warmly along my veins. I brought my Ing ring into view and it seemed the fabrics shimmered, light playing along the yarns’ surfaces. I was still trying to find out what all it might allow; the silver piece at my neck in the shape of a Celtic knot gave visions of that past world. The string of Ing runes around my ring was based on the similar chain on the dress Kyna’s daughter had made. Gwynedd had stitched a spell into the rune sigils that ultimately carried me out of the overpowerful mage Galfride’s painful grip.

I dropped to my knees on the rug and spilled snarled yarns from the basket. One by one, I untangled them, winding neat balls, building a pyramid on the carpet.

This will never do. These yarns do not belong stacked on the floor. I snatched up my cell phone and pressed Joaquin’s number.

Hey, Kay, he answered, What’s up?

I’d like to commission you for some woodwork.

What do you want? he asked in his Mayan accent. A bench for your garden? A statue of a seal?

Actually, I need shelves.

Shelves? He sounded disappointed.

Special ones, I assured him.

What do you have in mind?

If you come over, I’ll describe what I’m thinking, and you can tell me if it’s possible.

More and more mysterious, he said, laughing. Sure. I heard him speak away from the phone, then to me again. Jarl and I can come by soon.

Great. I hung up.

Right away, the phone rang.

Mom?

Rouss! I said.

You’re okay, right? he asked.

I’m fine. Why?

I just had a strange notion—like ... He trailed off.

Like what? I held my breath. The thought of worrying my son was intolerable.

Well, I don’t even want to say. It’s crazy. I just felt suddenly like you were in danger or... weren’t there. Like something might have happened. It came like a jolt. But then it was gone. Listen, I’m about to get on the subway and we’ll lose connection, but I’m glad you’re okay. By the way, I’ve been writing some more.

Have you?

Yeah. It’s still that girl being taken on the ship by the cruel pirate-mercenary guy.

Exciting plot. I could only hope he no longer felt compelled to write, that the story had nothing to do with my experiences in ancient times. Want to send it to me?

I’ll be home in less than an hour and can email it.

I heard rumbles and screeches.

My train’s here. Gotta go. Love you.

I love you, too, sweetie.

I tried to return to working with the yarns, but my hands shook and my stomach churned. Girls abducted on a ship, like Gwynedd. It didn’t have to be the same tale; nevertheless, the parallels were disturbing.

Unable to focus on unraveling knots, I waited by my computer for my son’s story. A knocking came at the front door, and I pulled myself away from the laptop.

Joaquin and Jarl stood on the step.

That was quick! I led them into the living room.

They gazed at the snarled heap next to the neat pyramid of yarn balls.

I was sorting, I explained.

Jarl squatted and picked sage-colored yarn from the pile. He shot me a look.

Does he perceive it?

He set it down and stood. Is this what you want shelves for?

I nodded.

What are you picturing? Joaquin asked.

I’d like…sort of cubbies to stretch along both walls. I undulated my hand. In waves. Here, I drew my idea. I pulled a sketchbook forward on the table. The drawing showed two rows of cubbyholes filled with yarns. I’d embellished the edges with fanciful designs.

The two men examined my illustration. Jarl’s brows went up and he glanced at Joaquin, who whistled.

Would that be too hard? I asked, looking from one to the other. I was thinking of your sea lion bench. It has similar curves.

Yeah, I could do that, Joaquin said. What kind of wood are you thinking?

Well, if possible, some that’s on the ground. Not cut down for me.

Actually, we had to take out a few oaks last year. They had beetle infestation. Do you have a stepladder? I’ll measure.

I brought one in.

As Joaquin worked, Jarl studied my drawings for the carvings: woodland creatures such as deer, sprites, and gnomes, dancing among trees and leafy vines. Great sketches, he commented. I can’t wait to see these shelves.

Me, either, Joaquin said, winking at us.

The carvings could come, you know, a bit at a time. I waved dismissively at the detailed depictions in my book. Maybe I can learn to carve some myself.

Jarl touched the fabric of my tunic. You made this, right? There was admiration in his tone.

The cloth had a subtle pattern of moons among trees, in moss green and indigo hues. I nodded and sighed. But I need more yarn. I looked down sadly at the small pile on the rug.

I don’t know that much about weaving, he said. I’m barely learning about wood from Joaquin. But you can find just about anything online.

Aelwyn’s medieval shop that appeared behind the Dragon’s Lair would be rather hard to explain, not to mention ancient gypsies visiting my doorstep with baskets of enchanted fibers. Mm, the kind of yarn I need is…hard to find.

Joaquin climbed off the stool, made a last note, and said, I’ll gather the wood and see what’s usable. Is there a specific timeline on this project? He tucked the tape measure into his shoulder bag.

No. Until I get more yarns, there’s not a huge rush, though I’d be happy to get it started. Do you have a price in mind?

He waved a hand. We’ll work it out. The wood will cost me nothing. Maybe we can trade. He looked around as if in search of an apparent skill I might barter with. There’s no lack of talent here. He pointed to my art on the walls, drawings, the clothes I’d woven and sewn.

I’ll pay a fair price. Unless there’s something specific you want.

He chuckled. I’ll think about that.

I slapped his arm. Cheeky.

Hey, our friends are playing at the Duck ’n Hen tomorrow night. Want to meet us there?

Sounds great. It’s been a while since I heard Harper in the Glen. As I said the band’s name, I felt a twinge of discomfort, recalling the lead singer Ian’s strange attitude toward me, but I gave a cheery wave as I saw Jarl and Joaquin—the J’s—out the front door.

Once they’d left, I raced to my computer. Rousseau’s email was there. With trepidation, I opened it.

Chapter 2

"Sorry it took me so long to get this to you, Mom. I started to read it over and my hands began typing again, adding more to the story. I had to force myself to save, attach and send, like pushing against a strong wind not to keep writing and writing. Anyway, here it is. Love you, Rouss."

Stomach a sour, queasy mess, worry about the compelling force pushing my son, I took in breaths and slowly let them out. I made myself open the attachment and printed it to take into bright sunshine in the backyard.

I settled on an old wooden bench by a gnarled apple tree to read his story:

It was night. A rugged ship, menacing, in ragged disrepair, rocked at the edge of a port town. The name, in gold, peeling paint, was barely legible: Kauli Pishom. Otho, the mercenary captain, stood in the doorway of a cramped cabin, glaring around him. A jagged scar sliced across one cheek. It twitched as he stared into the empty room. The single chair, which should have been occupied, was not. Over its back draped heavy ropes he himself had placed around the slight figure of a girl no more than sixteen. With one long stride, he crossed to the chair and, crouching, snatched up an embroidery frame, cloth stretched across it, covered in beautiful stitchery.

"Runes. Thorn and Haegl," the privateer snarled. He had enough training in magicks to know there was more in this pattern than met the eye. As he ran his thumb over it, the image—abstract H’s and thorny branches—changed to that of a girl tied to a chair.

The captain’s lip curled. He rubbed the stitchery again. The ropes in the image dropped from the girl.

He spat. Lurching to his feet, he hurled the embroidery hoop against the wall with a roared curse.

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My hands shook as I pressed the pages into my lap. The girl had to be Gwynedd. Who else did such powerful stitchery? How could my son possibly have received this story? So that was how she’d escaped. She’d probably convinced the pirate to allow her the seemingly innocuous pastime of embroidery. No wonder Galfride monitored her stitching so closely. She’d used Hagalaz, rune of destruction and chaos, combined with Thurisaz, the thorn-like rune of focused will. Haegl and Thorn in Anglo-Saxon. A powerful combination for loosening knots.

Could the story give the answers we needed? If it followed the pirate, it might lead us to Ansgor’s lair. But how was the pirate connected with Galfride? Lifting the pages, I continued to read:

"Bloody wench," he cried. "Ye’ll regret this." Jaw clenched to breaking, he yanked a lantern from the wall, grabbed the door latch, then stopped, flinching. His head jerked to one side, listening. The scar down his cheek paled, contrasting with his weathered complexion. A haunted mixture of rage and fear filled his eyes. A pulse throbbed in his neck. Then, as though released, he stormed from the small cabin and barreled along the deck in sea-accustomed strides. The fierceness in his glare sent his men scurrying out of his path.

Across the short distance of black water from the anchored Kauli Pishom, raucous shouts and music spilled from taverns along the rough pier. Torches cast gold light on the rippling water. A night wind carried the scent of salty air and wood fires. It whipped Captain Otho’s frayed velvet coattails around him and rocked the small, tattered ship.

Arriving at his cabin, Otho threw open the thickly carved door. The wind caught it, then threw it shut behind him with a slam as the vessel rocked.

A horrible sound like metal tearing from wood came from the center of the cabin. A disembodied head floated above a massive desk glowing and flickering as if fire blazed beneath it. A greenish glow seeped from deep recessed eyes in the grimacing skull-like visage.

The captain planted his feet, spread wide to take the swaying of the ship. He grimaced, as if this were not the first time of such a visitation.

I stopped, remembering the green light that had seeped from Galfride’s eyes when he grew most cruel. Were they connected? Stomach churning, I read on:

A collection of exotic birds and monkeys surrounded the phantom head, crouching, silent and watchful, shivering on their perches.

Flames oozed like lava from the skull’s mouth as its metal-tearing laughter poured forth. "Otho," the floating head growled in a grating Germanic voice. "Where is girl? Bring her to me."

"She…appears to have gone ashore of her own accord…my Lord," the captain responded hoarsely through clenched teeth, lip curled, resentment in his black eyes.

The apparition laughed again, a scraping metallic hiss. "You disappoint me." Flames erupted from beneath the head, roaring and hissing, though no fire showed on the surface of the polished wood desk.

The captain flinched, pain coruscating across his features. His fists clenched. "I will find her, Your Grace," he rasped.

"You will not," said the ghastly apparition. "I know where she goes. She hears her friend calling." The ripping laugh shrieked again. "Galfride plays a dangerous game. Never mind. I get what I want. Ansgor has his ways."

Suddenly the face expanded and swept toward Otho, who lurched back, colliding with the door. The face hovered inches away from him, green and red-gold light flaring.

"Don’t bother to chase her," came the guttural voice. A sulfurous odor assailed Otho’s nostrils and he grimaced. "Come to me," Ansgor snarled and flames dripped from his mouth. "There is more to do before you earn your reward." With this parting command, the head vanished.

The captain glanced toward the sound of footsteps outside. Quelling his shaking hands and forcing his features to their usual fierce glare, he reached for the latch and opened to his boatswain.

There it was. Proof. The name Galfride, right on the page. Rousseau couldn’t possibly know that name. I had never mentioned it to him. I could not fathom how this story was reaching my boy, but I had to give this information to Baird. How? I sat staring, skin goosebumped despite the sunshine in my backyard. There remained only a couple of pages to read. If the story followed the ship, it might help the Thirteen track the evil that lurked beyond Galfride, the source of this floating, disembodied head inflicting pain and fear upon the sea-rogue.

But how could Rouss receive information Aelfwyn and the Travelers never detected?

I scanned the last pages for clues. Otho sailed on along the coast, from Kalais to the north edge of Saxony—what was now Germany. He anchored in a hidden cove and followed the River Elbe, then hiked up to a cave in a mountain valley, where he received payment and further instructions from Ansgor. The story gave no detailed markers for finding the sorcerer’s home. How many valleys ran off of the River Elbe, I wondered.

I sat back and stared into a sycamore tree whose leaves rustled in a light breeze. Oz wandered over and rubbed against my leg. I stroked him.

After a while, I stood, folded the pages, and shoved them into a vest pocket. At the back door, I picked up my boots, then stopped by the loom. So recently, I’d been excited to sink into weaving. I’d been settling back into life in my time, enjoying friends and gardening, making plans, envisioning my new shelves, and bringing weaving back into my life.

Now, this story.

I rested my hand on the loom and breathed in musky textile scents. Even now, Joaquin might be cutting wood for my shelves. I mewed a plaintive note. Was I really going to try to return to ancient Wales to deliver the information in my son’s story? I didn’t know if I could build the Tree of Light on my own. Or if I could send myself safely, accurately, back in time. I had done so before with the flute Hamelyn made.

I twisted the ring, let it go. I had never worked with it alone. Perhaps the route was now established and could be repeated. With equal parts reluctance and determination, I aimed my steps toward the front hall, set the ladder under the attic door, and climbed. Leaving Oz grooming his leg at the base, I pushed away the square hatch and scrambled into the attic space, ducking to avoid the low slanting ceiling. Dust beams swirled under the skylight. I crab-walked to the box labeled Medieval Wales, where I’d stored language notes. Pulling off the lid, I reached down the side. My fingers curled around the delicate flute carved by Hamelyn a thousand years ago. I brushed a cobweb from my cheek, took a breath, coughed.

Closing my eyes, I cleared my throat and searched my mind for the notes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oz start up the ladder. No! You stay down there, Kit-Kat. I scrambled to cover the opening. I imagined Oz leaping onto my lap as I disappeared, then chasing him through the hills of that long-ago world, losing him there. Sorry, buddy! I called through the cover. You need to stay here in our century.

I sat cross-legged and put the flute to my lips. Pausing, I promised myself, I will read them the story, then return to my time, my weaving, another bubble bath.

I played the first notes of Hamelyn’s haunting tune. As the melody drifted from the flute, I felt my way back into the song, squashing a flutter of doubt: Was I remembering it correctly? When I came to the end, I repeated, still unsure. Why hadn’t I recorded it, back when I first learned it from Baird, just to make sure? I wished I’d thought of that. I tried to remember how many times I’d played it before the instrument took me to Hamelyn.

Blowing the notes again, I shut out thoughts of the hard floorboards under me, and the cobwebs that stretched close to my face. I needed to get lost in the melody. Hamelyn had told me it was about the intent. It wouldn’t come from pushing hard mentally, demanding that my desire be met. It also required emotion. I released to my targeted aim and the sensations behind it, breathing deeply and steadily.

I played for a while longer, then opened my eyes to the sight of boxes, light filtering in through the leaf-strewn skylight. Still in my attic. I felt defeated, but also slightly relieved. If it didn’t work, I could climb down to Oz and my weaving. A part of me eagerly embraced that notion. I pictured another quiet evening reading by the fire.

Yet the story remained folded in my pocket, emanating the heat of conscience. If it might help, I had to deliver what I knew.

Then I saw my boots. I’d dragged them up with me for a reason: so that if I did make it to the past, I wouldn’t be hobbling around in stocking feet. I tugged them on, then resettled and studied the flute, with the tiny quail family carved along its length. I closed my eyes and played the tune again, picturing Hamelyn whittling the flute for his mother, the mother who’d been missing for months. My mind drifted to his workshop, doors standing open, music pouring from it into the yard, the sounds of hammers pounding, sanding tools scraping. Shouts between Duff, Hamelyn, and other artisans floated across the air. The melody took on strength, filled with a mood of sadness, longing, need. I smelled peat smoke. Cold air whipped around my thin clothing.

I opened my eyes. I was staring down from a height above treetops, at the very scene I’d imagined. I hovered, unable to go further. Just as I saw Hamelyn step from the shed, darkness engulfed me. I was swept through blackness, and landed hard on icy stone. My head struck a wall. Cold dampness seeped into my clothing. I lay still, taking quiet breaths, listening, trying to ascertain any clue of where I