The Beowulf Seeker: Weaving of Time, #1

By Alydia Rackham

If he succeeds, he will be named a hero. If he fails, his kingdom, and everyone in it, will crumble to dust.

Young Lord Oleron MacDonald has been given a mission. The mysterious wizard, Rune, has cursed him, forcing him to leap forward through time in a desperate search for a great treasure Oleron has coveted and killed for: the treasure that Beowulf himself wrested from the dragon. But while Oleron sees only the chance to return home in wealth and glory, his courage and his heart will be tested by the devastating trials of the London fire of 1666, the sinking of the Titanic, the bombing of Pearl Harbor…and the risk of losing the one he grows to love.
If you enjoy a race against the clock, visiting pivotal moments in history, the struggle against temptation and wickedness, and the ultimate strength of goodness, you will love this tale.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Jun 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224325238

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Prologue

"AT HOME I BIDED

what fate might come, and I cared for mine own;

feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore

ever on oath. For all these things,

though fatally wounded, fain am I!

From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me,

when life from my frame must flee away,

for killing of kinsmen!

Now quickly go

and gaze on that hoard 'neath the hoary rock,

Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low,

sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved.

And fare in haste. I would fain behold

the gorgeous heirlooms, golden store,

have joy in the jewels and gems, lay down

softlier for sight of this splendid hoard

my life and the lordship I long have held."

-King Beowulf

The old man, his white robes flowing all around him, sat hunched on a pile of furs within the shadowed tent, using the light from the three flickering candles to study his thin, gnarled hands. His cold, blue left eye ran over his white tendons, knobby joints and failing veins. The other eye appeared white, as if he had been stricken in the days of his youth and gone blind there. A deep hood covered his head, but his long, snow-like hair tumbled down his chest. He was clean-shaven, and his pale, drawn face bore no expression—-his mouth was a hard line. 

The walls of the tent rustled in the night wind, which howled across the highlands like a lost child. The old man sighed, feeling age rattle in his chest. It would be any moment, now.

The tent flap was flung open, and a blonde, broad-shouldered, broad-faced young man, wearing leather and chain mail, stuck his head in, but kept his eyes on the floor of the tent.

My lord, he is here, he said gruffly.

Thank you, Baal. Send him in, the old man bid with his left hand. The flap slapped shut for a moment, and then a black-gloved hand slid inside and pushed the entrance open. A different young man stepped into the tent.

He was clothed all in black, and a cowl hid his hair, but the old man saw how straight he stood, how strong his form was, and his heart thrilled with keen envy. His left hand closed into a fist, which he hid within the folds of his robe.

Good evening, the old man greeted the young man. I was beginning to think you had forgotten.

Forgotten? the young man laughed as he seated himself across from the old man, his black cloak spreading out behind him as he did. Impossible. I have been thinking about your message day and night since I received it.

The old man studied the young man’s face by the light of the faint flames. His skin that was not shadowed was smooth and unscarred—-his black eyebrows curved with casual insolence, his blue eyes glittered, his nose was angular and well-formed, and his mouth smirked slightly. To the old man, the young man was the epitome of perfection.

So you did receive my message? the old man prompted.

I did—-two days ago, the young man acknowledged. It has intrigued me more than any other venture you have proposed.

Though you cannot say that the other ventures were not worth your time, I hope, the old man said flatly. The young man sneered.

No, I cannot say that. He shifted. But about this one I am extremely curious.

You ought to be, the old man confirmed. For it deals with an illustrious treasure.

The young man’s eyes gleamed.

So it’s true?

Aye, the old man nodded. The dragon hoard I mentioned is real. And it is within our grasp.

The young man leaned forward. The old man went on.

You know of the Danes that dwell mere miles from Tioramir castle?

The young man nodded once.

A king of theirs, in ancient times, slew a dragon and took its gold and gems. Since then, his people have kept it, hidden it and guarded it with their lives in their native land. But now, within the past year they have brought it here, and concealed it within the caves near where they live.

The young man’s eyes blazed.

Can they be overpowered?

The old man smiled slightly, pleased at this question.

Not easily. The Danes are fierce fighters. But I have faith in the strength of the Scots—-especially when your father learns of the sheer size and worth of this gold. The old man held out a rolled piece of parchment. The young man took it without question, and opened it. His eyes widened as he read the list.

Incredible... he whispered. Then he blinked, and looked back up at the old man, his eyes narrowing. You surely aren’t handing this to me out of charity.

The old man laughed quietly.

Your cunning is remarkable, he complimented. That is why I have chosen you.

The young man looked at him askance.

For what?

Once you possess this treasure, as I am certain you will, the old man began, folding his gnarled hands. I want you to do two things for me.

All right, the young man said slowly.

The first—-I want you to take for yourself the first piece of treasure that you are drawn to. Whichever piece fascinates you, compels you to touch it, possess it and study it. I have a feeling it will be encased in gold. The old man winked. That is yours, and no other’s, and I wish you to learn every inch of it and take it with you all the way to your grave.

The young man smirked.

If you insist.

The second thing, the old man continued, sitting back a bit and lifting his chin. I want you to return to me—-and help me in all my further endeavors.

The young man stared at him, stunned.

Truly?

Yes, the old man nodded. "I am very old, and this body is weak and fragile. Hence, you will be my eyes, my ears, my hands and my tongue—-and you shall travel with me on the path to wealth and power you have never imagined."

This thought settled into the young man’s mind. Slowly, he nodded, looking satisfied.

I look forward to it.

The old man hid his knowing smile from the ignorant young man.

Very well. Speed this knowledge to your father—-I am certain he is eager to know what you have been up to.

The young man grinned, and rose to his feet.

Thank you. I will see you soon. He inclined his head, then left the tent. The old man watched him go.

Indeed, you will, he whispered, closing his left eye and grinning. And you will rue the day. 

Chapter One

Leather-Bound Beowulf

Scribe, Maryland

THE ALARM CLOCK WENT off, cutting shrilly through the quiet. Elinor Scribe sucked in her breath and opened her eyes. Sighing deeply, she reached over and turned off the alarm, rubbed her eyes and glanced toward her window. The springtime sun streamed in through the tall, old-fashioned window and cream-colored, lace curtains. The golden light filled her bedroom, which had been her mother’s, her grandmother’s, and her great-grandmother’s before her. Most aspects of it had remained the same, including the wooden floor covered in part by a white rug; the antique white dresser and vanity with a mirror; and the iron-framed bed swathed in soft, flowery sheets and fluffy pillows. Elinor had added a few touches of her own, such as a tall bookshelf that was simply packed with volumes, and several pictures that sat or hung here and there. Elinor sighed again and glowered at the digital clock, which read 7:30. She hated alarms. Especially when she was used to hearing: Honey? Ellie, it’s time to get up. We can’t open half-an-hour late again today.

Shoving back the piercing ache that suddenly rushed through her whole body, Elinor pushed the covers off herself, swung her legs over and stood. Her long, sleeveless, white nightgown brushed the tops of her feet as she crossed the cool, wooden floor. She bent down and opened the window. It squeaked with the motion, and clicked as she locked it in place. A gentle morning breeze played with the curtains, and the merry sound of a thousand song birds accompanied it. Elinor took a deep breath and leaned slightly out the window, resting her palms on the sill. She could smell the lilacs from here, and also caught the scent of a newly-mowed lawn.  Her long, coffee-colored, lazy curls slid down her shoulders with her movement and she pushed a strand of it back behind her ear. The sky was clear today, and the spreading, flowered gardens and lawns of her country house sparkled with dew. The day was going to be beautiful. Too bad she would not get to see much of it.

Drawing her head back in, she turned around and strode to her closet. She pulled out a long, sweeping skirt, a short-sleeved, peasant blouse and sandals. Quickly, she got dressed and buckled her sandals, then turned to her vanity mirror.

Her thick hair ran through her long, graceful fingers as she brushed it. She had never cut it in all her twenty years; she took great pride in it. There were so many things a person could do with long hair. She observed herself in the mirror as she braided the abundant tresses. She was slender and strongly built, like a dancer. She had deep brown eyes with long, black eyelashes, expressive eyebrows and a serious, comely mouth. Some would say that she had a classical beauty about her, of which she was not unaware, but neither did she think about it very much. Elinor bit her lip absently. She used to sing lilting, Irish songs while she got ready in the morning. Not anymore.

She finished braiding and pinned the braid up around her head to form a crown. Then she turned and opened her door and moved down the empty hall, then descended the creaking, wooden stairs.

The house was so quiet. She never could stand that. Quickly, as she did every morning now, she went and opened the windows in the old-fashioned kitchen so she could still hear the robins, and pushed play on the CD player she had sitting on the counter. Ignoring the words to Carrickfergus, the first song—-for she was simply thankful for the vacuum-filling sound it made—-she quickly got herself some cereal, ate, then brushed her teeth, washed her face and put on just a bit of makeup. On a weekend, she would not have done the last, but she was going to work.

She was further convinced that it was going to be a fine day as she stepped out onto her porch and shut the door behind her. There were no clouds in the sky, the birds still sang, and the breeze carried the scent of every flower in the garden. It had rained a little some time in the early night, and so the grass and trees displayed a vivid, lush green. Shouldering her purse, she strode down the walkway and over to her beat-up, little car. Two years ago, she would not have dreamed of driving to work on such a day. She would have walked. But not anymore.

The drive was a short one. The place where she worked only stood two blocks down the main street of Scribe, in the middle of the downtown. Scribe was a very old town, crediting its founding to before the Revolutionary War. The streets were brick, as were most of the two-story buildings, and the ancient trees stood tall and spreading. Scribe was a sleepy little town; neat and well-ordered and quiet. As Elinor parked and got out, she could smell the bakery and also the coffee from the café on the other side of the street. She shut her car door and turned to gaze up at her store.

It was a towering edifice; two stories taller than any of the other buildings in the town. It was also one of the oldest. It was made of very dark stones—-almost black—-and the front windows were unusually broad. The front entrance had an arch above it, and the wood of the door had been fashioned out of cherry wood, and stood about six inches thick. An antique, weathered sign hung over the door by an iron-wrought bar, and it read: Scribe’s Booksellers, Est: 1780.

Elinor strode up onto the sidewalk, reached inside her purse and drew out the key; it was a great, heavy skeleton key, for the lock of the bookstore had never been changed. There was no need, in this town. People rarely even locked the front doors of their homes.

Clearing her throat, she shoved the key in the lock, worked the stubborn latch and pulled open the door.

The little bell rang above her head. The musty scent of books greeted her, and its familiarity comforted her. Though the rest of the town was unremarkable, this was no ordinary bookstore. It was the secret and pride of the state, for in it were housed books that had been written before the Revolution, and countless other antique volumes. Tall, oaken shelves packed the walls and completely obscured them. Several tables stood about, which were also covered with stacks of manuscripts. Elinor glanced down. The gray, marble floor needed dusting, as did the brass chandelier. She could never reach the far, tall corners of the room to dust them, so they would remain filled with cobwebs. Carelessly, she flicked on the light, turned the CLOSED sign around to OPEN, and wove between the tables to the broad, tall, beautifully-carved counter. She tossed her purse down on a chair in the corner and began to search for the dusting things.

The thick door opened and the bell dinged. Elinor’s head jerked up. Though she often  had out-of-town visitors who came to admire the crowded shelves, she had never had one enter only thirty seconds after opening.

Peering around the stacks of books, she caught a glimpse of a man in a deep red suit and a white tie. He moved deliberately as he shut the door, then turned around and strode up to the counter. His a brass-headed walking stick tapped the floor—-it was clear he only carried it for dress. He had a close-cut, black beard, white streaked hair and penetrating, obsidian eyes that nevertheless were not cold. His nose was unusually hooked, she thought, and he had bushy eyebrows. He smiled at her and inclined his head. When he spoke, his voice was mild.

Good day, miss. It’s a shame to have to work on such a beautiful day, isn’t it?

Yeah, Elinor managed a smile. What can I do for you?

I’m looking for your employer, John Scribe. Is he in the back?

Elinor’s throat closed and she stiffened.

No, she said tightly. No, he’s not in the back.

Oh, is he not here yet? the Englishman wondered, glancing down at his watch. I admit, it is a bit early...

No, he’s not coming, Elinor’s fists closed. He...He is dead.

The man’s eyes lifted up to meet hers.

Oh, he said slowly, his brow furrowing. I am sorry.

Not your fault, Elinor blinked her eyes rapidly and bent to continue to look for the dusting things beneath the counter, trying to avoid looking at the stranger—-to avoid his sympathy.

Then...I would suppose that you are his daughter, rather? he asked quietly.

Yes, Elinor said shortly.

Then perhaps you would know about my order.

Elinor stood up.

Your order?

Yes, the man straightened and clasped his hands in front of him. I believe it was about three years ago; I came in here and asked your father if he had a certain copy of a certain book. He said that he didn’t, but he could get it for me. Many months passed—-perhaps even a year—-and I had given up on it. Then, when I finally received word that it was in, I was engaged in very urgent business and could not come to get it. I asked your father to hold it for me.

What is your name? 

Pascal. Joshua Pascal, he told her.  Elinor reached beneath the counter to pull out the wide, dusty ledger. Her dad had never wanted to get a computer; he had said it would ruin the look of the shop. Laying the ledger down gently on the counter, Elinor opened it and began turning the pages.

And this was three years ago, you said? she asked, thumbing through the leaves.

I believe so, but I’m not sure, he chuckled. I’m not very good with dates.

Hm, Elinor mused as she ran her finger down the list of names, written in her father’s handwriting. Pascal, Pascal...  She stopped. Here it is. She glanced up. May sixteenth, 2004. A copy of Beowulf?

"Not just a copy, Mr. Pascal held up a finger. A very old, rare copy indeed, written in the original Old English. I am actually quite amazed that your father was able to track it down."

It says here it was shelved for sale, but not sold, Elinor observed. Hm. Ah, okay. I know where it is. Give me a second and I’ll get it for you.

Thank you, Mr. Pascal smiled warmly as Elinor turned to her left and headed down a small hallway whose walls were also obscured by shelves. She turned down another hallway, almost exactly similar, and came to a small, back room where sat two arm chairs and a coffee table, surrounded by tables and shelves of more manuscripts. On the second shelf of a very old case, amidst all the other books, stood a narrow box made of black wood, bound with decorative metal. The ledger specified this exact spot on this shelf, so that must be it. She pulled it off the shelf, which took some doing, for it was very heavy. She set it carefully down on the coffee table and brushed away the dust, wondering why she had never noticed this particular item before. The lock on the side had broken, and so she gingerly lifted the lid.

Within it hid a most remarkable document. It had been bound with very expensive red leather, and also had metal hinges. It looked incredibly aged. Filled with wonder and caution, Elinor touched the cover with her fingertips and eased it open.

Upon the very first page, written in extravagant letters bordered by elaborate designs of dragons, kings and knights, stood a single word in blazing scarlet:

BEOWULF

Elinor marveled at the craftsmanship for a moment, then gently turned the ancient, parchment page. The next writing was just as intricate, and looked like no language she had ever seen: 

Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum,

þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,

hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.

Wow, she whispered. The sound of someone clearing his throat echoed down the corridor, and Elinor came back to herself, remembering that Mr. Pascal was waiting. Gently, she shut the book and closed its box, then hefted the great thing and carried it proudly back out to the counter.

It took me a second, but I found it. She set it down in front of him. Mr. Pascal smiled in satisfaction and nodded.

Ah, yes. Thank you, miss. He reached out and opened the lid just as carefully as she had, and beamed affectionately at the manuscript.

It’s like seeing an old friend again, he murmured, delicately opening the front cover and admiring the title page. He then turned to the next one, which Elinor had been looking at, and her curiosity overcame her.

Sir, what language is that again?

Old English, he replied crisply. Also old German. The two modern languages descended from this one.

What does this mean? she gestured to the page. He cleared his throat again and spoke in a grand, quiet voice.

"Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings

of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,

we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!"

Oh, Elinor breathed, something in her blood stirring as she heard the words. The name sounds familiar, but I've never read it. What’s it about?

Mr. Pascal laughed.

Oh, it’s a long story; an epic! You’ll have to read it yourself. It’s in print, and in English that you can read, too. He shut the cover and the box, and when he did so, a bit of light seemed to go out of the room. He raised his eyebrows. Now, what is the price?

Blinking, Elinor returned her gaze to the ledger, then bit the inside of her mouth to keep from gasping.

Ah...three-hundred dollars, she managed.

That’s all? Mr. Pascal exclaimed, reaching inside his coat. I expected much more for such a valuable piece. He drew out a wallet, opened it and thumbed through the money, then handed her three one-hundred dollar bills. Elinor felt nervous just handling that amount, and quickly slipped it into the metal box in the drawer and locked it.

I hope you enjoy it, she said, halfway wishing that she had looked at the marvelous book more while she had had the chance.

Oh, I certainly will. Mr. Pascal’ eyes sparkled. Thank you. And he took up the box and book and moved to leave. Then he stopped abruptly and turned around. Oh! I almost forgot! That would have been dreadful. He hurriedly came back to the counter. An old friend and I have been having a competition for at least five or six years to see who could get a hold of this book first. And at last I have triumphed! He grinned. So, if anyone comes in here, inquiring after this book, He tapped the box. Would you be so kind as to give him this? He reached inside his coat again and withdrew a small, sealed envelope and handed it to her. And I must ask you not to read it. It’s full of friendly taunts, you see, and many inside jokes meant for him. I would appreciate it. Thank you for everything.

Sure, Elinor said absently, still holding the envelope. He opened the door halfway, then turned to face her. The look on his visage stilled her, for though the good humor was still there, it softened with unexpected, genuine empathy. He smiled at her—-quite a different smile than she had seen before—-and spoke softly.

Don't give up yet, Miss Elinor, he advised. And don't wait too long to be brave.

Her mouth fell open. She did not know what to say. He nodded gently, then turned and left the bookstore, shutting the heavy door behind him. Elinor swallowed, turning pale. Why had he said that? It was as if he had been there all the nights she had lain awake, filling with despair and fear, waiting to hear someone speak those very words. She swallowed again. She had no idea what to make of it. Then she shook herself. He was just a strange man who had just heard her father was dead. He was just trying to say something nice and consoling. She glanced down at the letter and cocked an eyebrow at it as the ringing of the bell died away. But there was still something creepy about this letter and that man, that was certain. Her fingertips toyed with the edges. She really ought to open it—-

She sneezed loudly, then made a face and rubbed her nose. It was far too dusty in here. She must clean now, before she did anything else. Setting the envelope down by the locked cash box, she moved once more to find the dusting rags and spray.

LATER IN THE DAY, IT began to rain. That meant that no one would come in. They used to, on rainy days, and her dad would entertain them with stories or take them up to the second floor where there was a fireplace and checker boards and reading corners, in addition to a thousand more books. But now, the second floor was dark and filled with cobwebs, for Elinor had locked its door and had left it that way. The rest of the bookstore grew spooky with the rain, and gloomy. The light bulbs were dim, making the corners shadowy, and silently giving any passer-by the feeling that he wanted to be somewhere else.

Elinor did not mind; she did not particularly like talking to people anymore, and besides, she needed to clean. She had wrapped a handkerchief around her head to keep her hair from getting dirty, and now stood atop a step-ladder to reach the tops of the north shelves. She had already done the floor before lunch, and had just started on the towering cases.

The thunder rumbled harder outside, and lightning flashed. She glanced out the window. Water rushed down the brick streets and filled the gutters. She sighed and sprayed the dark wood, then scrubbed it. The road home would be muddy.

The door banged open and the bell rang hysterically. Elinor twitched and nearly fell off the ladder. She grabbed the top of the bookcase to steady herself and whipped her head around.

A young man stood on the threshold, dripping wet. His pitch black hair hung in his eyes, and he looked very pale and out of breath. He wore simple black clothes that nevertheless looked strange—-perhaps a bit ragged—-and knee-high boots that were covered with mud. Gasping, he turned and laboriously shut the door behind him.

Forgive me for startling you, he panted as he turned back around.

Oh...That’s okay, she managed, letting go of the shelves and staring at him. Wh...Gosh, you’re completely soaked!

He glanced down at himself—-his long sleeves stuck to his arms—-and then swiped at his face.

Yes...I walked three miles in the rain. 

Elinor, thrown, managed to descend the ladder. She placed the rag and spray down on a table and approached him cautiously.

What can I do for you?

He looked up at her. She stood still. His eyes, behind the wet strands of ebony hair, flashed a sapphire that she had never seen, and behind them shone an intense depth, sorrow, insight and gravity that appeared both aged and ageless. His features were handsome, strong and young, well-bred and white. His mouth set seriously, and his sharp eyebrows reminded her of a hawk. He bore a single scar directly below his right eye. He took a deep breath, and spoke in a more controlled tone.

I have no desire to get your floor wet, he said. His voice was regulated, deep and distant. "I am just looking for a very old copy of Beowulf, and thought that such a bookstore might have it."  

Elinor swallowed hard.

I...I did. But I sold it this morning.

Instead of being disappointed, his gaze focused acutely and his brows came together.

Indeed? To whom?

An older man. I believe his name was Mr. Pascal.

He searched her face for a moment, then nodded slowly.

I see. Did he...leave anything for someone who might also be looking for this book?

Elinor started.

Oh! Oh, yes. He did. Follow me.

No. I do not want to track mud across your floor, the young man said firmly, and his tone made Elinor quite unwilling to argue. She swiftly returned to the counter, beginning to worry. This was a strange young man. He looked about her age, and yet he talked like he was eighty. He also spoke with a slight accent that she did not recognize. Hopefully, he would not stay after she gave him the letter. His presence increased the spookiness of this place almost a hundredfold.

Swiftly, she took up the envelope and returned to him.

Here, she held it out.

Thank you, he said shortly, taking it from her, and wasted no time in tearing it open and pulling out the contents. He barely moved as his eyes flew over the written words, and Elinor could hear the water dripping off of him and hitting the marble.

Hm, he said absently, as if he had forgotten completely that she was there. Then, wordlessly, he turned opened the door and, still staring at the paper, wandered back out into the rain. Utterly baffled, Elinor gaped after him as he began to cross the street, then managed to reach up and shut the door.

What on earth...? she whispered, filling with bemusement. What are these strange men doing——

Her thought never finished. The next instant, a car horn outside blared deafeningly, brakes squealed and two solid objects