Traveller Probo

The past week had been the longest of Michael’s life. Tatae’s bleed had all in the village fear she was losing the baby and, despite her normally confident demeanour, she had not been able to conceal her terror. Memories of prior attempts to have children came crashing back and she was distraught. Despite his modern medical training, nothing prepared Michael for the potential loss of his daughter and perhaps even the death of his wife. Without modern technology and the medical expertise he had largely taken for granted, when faced with the loss of those he loved Michael felt despairingly alone. Even when on military manoeuvres or patrol, he had always been aware that medical evacuations were a backup if needed. Injury or death were the domain of any soldier yet, when faced with the slow deterioration of Tatae’s health, Michael realised how very far he was from home.

The Transporter was involved in some kind of maintenance and testing in the US and no-one had been able to confirm when the device would be back on-line. Michael had not initially been worried, in fact he had been secretly relieved for he had become irritated with the constant questions and requests from modern researchers. There was a seemingly insatiable thirst for information about Tatae’s ancient knowledge and the profits that ensued from the Tatae brand of natural medicines. Although a portion of those funds apparently made their way to his own bank account, and Tatae’s, he never accessed them and had no idea what he was worth. Hurley had once joked that Michael Hunter’s estate was worth over a hundred million pounds. He would trade all, in a moment, for modern care for his wife.

As per established emergency procedures he sent an evacuation request to the Base-Station but there had been no reply. Michael suspected the Base-Station had not been collected for weeks and the 21st Century researchers would be blissfully unaware of his dire need. Only when the Base-Station was collected would they see an emergency indicator light, view his broadcast and then take whatever action they could. The worst-case scenario for Traveller had been Michael or Tatae’s injury, so a contingency procedure that included medical evacuation was in place. Michael knew they would eventually respond. But when?

Each day, Tatae faded. They just couldn’t stop the bleeding. Cloths wrapped in absorbent mosses had quickly filled with bright red blood and she became pale and listless. Nothing she directed Michael to brew seemed to make any difference and the women who tended his beautiful wife sadly shook their heads. They had seen this happen before and the women involved always died. Brother Horsa was also grim, having little experience or knowledge of the workings of a woman’s body, only knowing that when a person bled like Tatae, a life would soon return to the Lord.

So Michael sat, his head bowed, with Tatae’s cool, slim hand in his. To make matters worse, the weather had closed in and a deadly frost lingered, as if nature itself was determined to take his wife from him. No matter what Michael did, Tatae couldn’t get warm. He and a couple of Tatae’s assistants lay in bed with her, naked, to warm her, skin to skin.

The smell of blood permeated everything.

He was exhausted and frantic. Despite his extensive experience in fields of conflict, nothing fatigued like this unrelenting emotional stress. He had barely eaten for five days and began to admit that his decision to stay in Saxon England had finally turned against him. For the happiness he and Tatae had enjoyed over the past years, he would make the decision again if he had the chance but to lose Tatae like this was wrenching him apart.

It was in the icy hours of the morning, the time many choose to leave mortality, when a small voice was heard. For some moments, Michael was barely aware as exhaustion pulled at him. As Tatae slipped away, he felt himself dragged further and further toward the abyss. His wife lay, unmoving, her breath in short, shallow gasps. She lay in the arms of one of the women, a young, elfin-faced lass with the dark hair of a child of the slaves. In the flickering fire-light, Michael saw the girl’s eyes open in alarm. “What is that?” she cried out softly. “Are the wee folk come to take our Tatae?” She looked terrified.

The voice spoke again and Michael realised it was from the radio in his pack. With a flood of hope, Michael dropped Tatae’s limp hand and rushed to his worn, leather pack. A signal light glowed and he quickly grabbed the tiny handset. Perhaps, there was hope?

“Say again, say again!” he replied quietly. “This is Michael Hunter, say again!”

“Hunter, thank God! We received an emergency call. The Transporter has only just come on-line and we received your message. We have a team at the Base Station. What’s the nature of the emergency?

“It’s Tatae.” His throat thickened a moment so he could barely speak. He then quickly explained their need.

He could only think, Thank God! Thank God!