I awoke the next morning to find Gram sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair. She does this when she has something rather momentous to tell me, but I guessed I already knew what she would say. And I was right.
“The sheriffs are looking into the matter, but she will stay with us for the time being. They decided that it would be best, since I can speak Welsh, and she’s such a young girl, that your Grandad and I will have to look after her. So, I thought you might want to look at these.”
She plopped a stack of Welsh grammar books on my bed.
“But Gram, it’s summer!” I complained. “You expect me to study?”
“I expect you to at least learn how to say hello to your guest to welcome her. And it wouldn’t hurt you to learn a little bit about my native tongue,” Gram replied, not unkindly, pinching my cheek. “Now, out of bed and go help your Grandfather with the cows.”
I didn’t see the girl all morning until the time came to go collect the milk jugs. She emerged from the guest room with wide, curious eyes, biting her lip. Gram had asked if she could borrow some of my clothes, and now she wore my only maxi skirt, a lime green t-shirt, and the only pair of sneakers I’d never gotten muddy before. Having seen her first in the medieval princess style dress, I was having trouble adjusting to her new look, which included the bright white cast on her arm. She seemed dazed and confused, her sharp features intensified by her hair, which was pulled into two French braids, Gram’s doing.
I heard the truck door slam, probably Grandad coming up from the barn. The noise startled her so much, she jumped, bumping into a chair and knocking it over. She almost started to cry, but I picked up the seat, setting it up right again, and smiled at her to try and make her feel more comfortable.
Gram had her hand on Gwenllian’s shoulder, and I could see the girl already felt more welcome around my Grandmother.
“Jen,” Grandad addressed me, coming in the kitchen door. “I know you’re aware of our new guest. She’s rather flustered from her accident still, so we’ll let her have some more time to adjust.”
“Yes, Grandpa,” I nodded, wishing I could talk with the girl, but I felt the language barrier between us deepen when she looked at me with awe as I spoke English.
“Would you be able to collect Greg’s milk jars? I need to drive into town this morning,” Grandad asked, sliding a mostly empty milk crate towards me across the tiled kitchen floor. Two fresh bottles were inside, sealed and ready for delivery.
“Sure,” I replied, picking it up by the handles.
“Be careful Jenny, and take the main road, please,” Gram insisted. I nodded, springing down the porch steps.
Coming out onto the dirt road, I started towards my friend’s house, pondering the strangeness of the little girl.
The light played off the dew on the grass, and everything seemed perfect and beautiful. Perhaps I could become used to having Gwenllian living with us. I’d always wanted a sister, so maybe I could stick my nose to those old Welsh books of Gram’s, and we could be friends.
I shifted the milk crate on my hip as Greg’s house came into view. It was a grey Victorian, but the paint was peeling and the gardens were overrun with weeds that tangled about the dilapidated fence surrounding the property.
I climbed the rickety porch steps up to the door.
I heard someone flip the latch, and there was my friend Greg, in his usual jeans and flannel, his sandy hair mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed. Exchanging milk jugs, I took his empties, giving him the fresh bottles I’d brought.
“Wanna come in?” he asked, giving me a weird, nasty stare. “Who is she?”
“Who is who?” I asked.
“That kid you brought home.”
“She’s a friend,” I stated defensively, wondering at how fast news travelled around here.
“What’s she doing?”
“Staying for a while,” I replied curtly. Why was he being like this?
“I see,” he smirked. And that was all he said.
Then we just stood there staring at each other for some minutes. Behind him, I could catch sight of his father’s work room, a large space filled with whirring gadgets, model airplanes, frothing vats of chemicals, and other strange odds and ends you would find in a scientist’s house.
One of Greg’s grumpy cats made a daring attempt at escape between my friend’s legs, and he cursed, setting down the milk containers and grabbing the furry animal.
“See you round, I guess,” he shrugged, shutting the door.
“Sure,” I mumbled, climbing back down the porch stairs and through the gate.
Sometimes Greg could be confusing, and right now he was obviously not in one of his better moods. We were the same age, but he was always trying to look and sound as if he was older, which annoyed me to no end. But the tenseness of his voice today puzzled me. Something must be up.
Despite the sunny weather, a storm cloud grew in my mind, and I felt pouty. What with the empty jars clanging in my milk crate and the fly buzzing in my ear, I didn’t want to talk to anyone or do anything in particular.
Finlay all the while had been trotting quietly by my feet, mincing about the dirt road snapping at butterflies. Now he bared his fangs at something ahead and began to bark at the top of his lungs.
“What is it, Finlay?” I asked him, but he tore down the road like lightning, leaping on top of something or someone in the dust.
It was a boy, who’s scream of fright was so shrill I thought he must be nine or ten years old. I noticed that his hair was dark, and he had olive toned skin.
“Finlay, heal!” I yelled, commanding my dog to stop barking. He did so reluctantly, hanging his head, unpinning the boy, and waiting for me to catch up.
I noticed that this boy was wearing a smock type outfit made of very fine linen, with a simple belt. His feet were clad with leather sandals, making him look like he’d come from a rather warm climate, which would account for his skin being so tan. But I wondered how he’d gotten here.
“Uh, hi,” I waved in a friendly way, all the while feeling utterly confused. Reaching out, I grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Sorry about my dog.”
“S-Salve,” he stuttered, looking around wildly. He dropped my hand as if it was red hot and stared at me.
I didn’t think I looked that odd. I mean, sure, I was wearing Grandad’s John Deer baseball cap and a pair of extremely baggy jeans, but he looked more out of place here than I did.
“Sorry, what?” I asked, thinking I hadn’t heard him right.
“Salve,” he repeated, his voice shaky and mistrusting. “Quid est teum nomen?”
Wait. The gears of my brain whirred, trying to recall the things I’d learned from boarding school this past year. He was speaking…Latin?
My mind seemed to explode. I’d been required to take Latin as a course in grammar school, but I hated it and wished I hadn’t had to decline all those nouns. But now, I was so thankful that I had.
“Ummm,” I thought hard. “My name is Jenny,” I told him with my rusty Classical pronunciations.
“My name is Felix,” the boy replied, speaking in the Latin language. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Meadow Valley,” I answered, watching his face blanch white.
“Is that close to Pompeii?”
“No.” I replied
“But I shouldn’t be here!” He looked dazed, as if he might have hit his head when he fell. “Where’s my mother? What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Why don’t you come and talk to my Grandparents, they’ll know what to do,” I said, feeling sure that they would understand what he was trying to say.
I entered the kitchen. It had taken a lot of convincing, but Felix had finally relented and come with me. He was frightened by the tiniest things: the arcing sound of the electric fence, the slamming of a car door.
Gwenllian was sitting on a stool, a cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes held a look of fear, but she seemed more prim now, sitting there in an almost princess-like way. As I entered, Felix coming in behind me, she and Gram turned to face me, and Grandad looked up from his newspaper. All of their eyes followed Felix as he crossed the threshold of the screen doorway.
He almost bolted back outside, but I caught his arm and he froze.
“Gram, Grandad,” I said in a steady voice. “This is Felix. I don’t think he’s from around here. And he speaks Latin.”
“Latin?” Gram asked concernedly, watching Felix’s big eyes rove the room. He stared at Gwenllian, almost seeming to recognize that she was just as out of place in my quaint farmhouse as he was.
“Salve,” he spoke quietly.
“Salve,” she replied.
“Where did you learn to speak Latin?” I asked her (in Latin of course).
“In the convent.” She arched an eyebrow. “The nuns taught me.”
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