Callan shook his head. Nay, he would not think on it.
After partaking of the wonders of the sea, Callan found another park. He felt most comfortable in wide green spaces. ’Twas a sunny day, so he sat on a bench in the Boston Public Gardens, taking in the surrounding scenery. The lush greenery of the garden was similar to the landscapes of his native Scotland, yet different. Flowers bloomed in meticulously arranged beds, their colors so bright compared to the heather and wildflowers of his homeland.
He watched as children played with strange, colorful toys that flew and rolled. Their laughter was the same in his time, one of the few things that felt familiar in this odd place. Nearby, a couple walked hand-in-hand, speaking softly in an accent that was both odd and intriguing to Callan.
There was a pond where people climbed into boats fashioned to look like swans gliding gracefully across the water. People in this time were most concerned with the time and the day. ’Twas Saturday, not that he cared, but he’d gathered from shamelessly listening to conversations all around him that people labored Monday through Friday and then enjoyed doing whatever they wished on Saturday and Sunday, though some worked other days and a few worked what they called shifts. He couldn’t imagine having two days out of each and every sennight to laze about.
The trees were different from the trees of the rugged highlands and the dense forests near Blackford Castle.
Squirrels darted in and out of sight, far tamer than any creature he had encountered in his own time. Occasionally, the soft whoosh of the cars on the roads drew his attention as he wondered what it might be like to command such a fast metal beast?
As Callan leaned back, tilting his face to the sun, a street performer nearby began to play an instrument unlike any he had ever heard. A woman nearby said ’twas a violin. The melody was soft and warm, bringing him comfort as he struggled to fit in. How was it possible he had traveled over 700 years into the future? For a moment, Callan closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him.
“Duck!”
While he was beseeching the fates, something hit him in the head. The solid “thunk” reverberated through his thick skull as he cursed. ’Twas a round green disc.
“Oh, I’m so, so sorry!” A lass called out, running towards him.
A dog ran over to greet him, tail wagging, a blue cloth tied around its neck.
“I’m so sorry about hitting you with the frisbee. Frankie usually catches it.”
Callan handed the green disc to the lass, then patted the dog whose coat was black, brown, tan, and white. The beast proceeded to lick his hand and arm.
“He likes you.” She grinned. “Then again, Frankie really likes everyone.”
The lass tapped a finger to full lips.
“Well, not bad people, but he loves all the nice people.”
The woman was dressed in the odd black hose he’d seen many women in this time wearing. She wore a pale yellow shirt that showed off her tanned arms with words on it that said, I can’t make everyone happy. I’m not a taco. She had verra fetching long legs, brown hair piled up on top of her head, secured with a blue and yellow checked bit of cloth, and friendly blue eyes.
The lass was breathtaking, and for a moment Callan forgot to breathe. The lass smelled of summer, a sweet flower, and grass after a rainstorm.
“Are you okay?” A giggle escaped as she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I am sorry, it’s just, wow, you must have a really hard head. It was like the frisbee hit the concrete.”
“Aye, lass, think nothin’ of it,” he rumbled. “My mum always said my head was as hard as the stones in the glen.”
“I’m Daisy.” She smiled, her eyes tilting up at the corners as if she were descended from a faerie, or mayhap she was a faerie and might aid him? Usually a practical man, Callan found himself willing to believe almost anything if it would help him return to his own time.
He inclined his head. “Callan Graham at your service, lass.”
“Oh, I just love a Scottish accent.” She plopped down on the bench beside him, her knee brushing his as she took a bottle out of her bag along with a bright blue bowl, into which she poured water for the dog. As the beast lapped the water, a metal charm on his collar jingling, she chattered on, oblivious to the stench emanating from his plaid as the dog finished and ran into the grass to play with the other wee beasties.
While she chattered on about the dog, the nice day, all the tourists, and other things he did not understand, Callan glanced at two slobbering, scruffy dogs currently mauling the green disc called a frisbee, as they barked and jumped.
When one dog jumped on the smaller beast playing too rough, Daisy let out a shrill whistle that instantly froze the dogs. She looked him over as he stretched his legs out in front of him, one booted foot crossed at the ankles, enjoying the warmth of the sun.
“Are you working the Renaissance Faire? It’s a bit early to get into costume. The Faire doesn’t start for another week.”
She tilted her head at him as the wind caught a wayward tendril of hair, sending the scent of rosemary, flowers, and something bright and sharp to his nose, a most pleasing scent.
“I don’t remember seeing you there last year, but there were so many people coming and going, it’s not surprising.”
Daisy reached out and ran a finger along the stained sleeve of his linen shirt. It had been laundered but still bore faint bloodstains.
“I love your costume. It’s very authentic. It looks handmade.” She added with a grin, “don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I pretend I live in medieval times, too.”
