A Stone’s Throw Away

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A painting, a man, and a circle of stones change Hutch’s life in mysterious ways.

 

Concept cheerfully borrowed from Diana Gabaldon. Keri is a goddess and I am her willing slave author. Marion – you always know what’s in my head and you draw it like magic. Sue, what a project! Thanks for believing.

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I am writing this story because I don’t want to forget anything. To whoever might read this later, maybe after I’ve fully lost my mind, or am dead — I swear to God, this is the truth. This is what happened. All the people are real. All the times are real. If someone tried to tell me this story, I wouldn’t believe them.

I’m asking you to believe me. I was real, in another time. David Starsky was real, but not in my time. We had ‘our’ time and when I’m dead, maybe we’ll have it again.

*~*~*

Bay City, California is my home. It’s where I’ve lived, worked, and fooled around for over fifteen years. It’s had its mysteries, but it’s my job to solve them. I’m a detective for the Bay City Police Department, and I pride myself on doing a good job. I know what I’m doing, but sometimes I’m damned if I know why.

Years now of dealing with murders in alleys, shootouts with druggies, beaten wives and beaten hookers, child abuse, battling a system that seems to let the bad guys walk and the good guys take the worst falls have left me bitter and lonely. Hiding my true self has only added to it; my interest in men has no place in the macho world of police work and I often find myself either with a woman I don’t have more than an intellectual interest in or alone. Have I had sex with them? Sure. I got to get it somewhere and I’m often told my blue eyes and blond hair are a huge attraction. For a few hours, I’m not lonely, but in the end they go home and I’m alone.

I had a partner, once. We didn’t get along. We didn’t click. He asked for a transfer, leaving me partnerless for the last two years, and Dobey doesn’t like it one bit. Dobey’s my captain: a big, black — unusual for the time, mind — no-nonsense man, but I often sense a touch of affection from him that I don’t see when he’s managing the other detectives. Like he needs to be my dad, I guess. He’s a family man and his wife invites me to dinner now and then. He cares for all his men, but there’s this look in his eye when I’m talking with him, like he’s more worried about me than the rest of them.

Not that I don’t do my job well. Being partnerless is a dangerous proposition and I’ve not been hesitant in calling in for back up when I need it.

I talk to my parents now and then. They’re back in Minnesota, and so is my sister. They weren’t very supportive of my desire to be a cop; they were more interest in my becoming an attorney, if law was where my curiosity led. But now that I’ve seen several attorneys working for their clients and the rotten underhanded tricks they pull, I couldn’t see myself doing it. I’d rather work with the facts and evidence and arrest the bad guys.

At any rate: My story begins with my day off. After a day of housework and groceries and laundry, I had reached evening and chose to wander Venice Beach, near where I live. Though it was only February, roller-skaters and bikers and joggers all competed for space and I stopped and turned my face to the sea breeze, soaking in the warm sun as it headed towards the watery horizon, the season a lovely precursor to the expected long, hot spring followed by a hotter summer. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the scents of suntan lotion, ocean water, fried foods from the vendors, and the sharp smell of oil paint.

That last odor caught my curiosity. I opened my eyes again and sought out the artist. He was only a few feet from me, working on a small canvas set up on a short easel. I approached him from behind, taking a look at his work.

He sensed me behind him and turned, a brilliant white smile crossing his face.

“Hey. How you doin’?”

“Good, thanks. I’m liking your work here. This building,” and I pointed carefully so as to not touch the painting itself, “is where I live. You can’t see it from here, though.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Yes, I’m working from this photograph,” he pointed to one clipped to the side of the canvas, “but I prefer to be by the sea when I paint, when I can. It’s real invigorating.” He smiled again and I felt myself suddenly drawn to his dark blue eyes beneath a short but curly dark mop of hair.

I stuck out my hand. “Ken Hutchinson.”

He wiped his own hand quickly with a rag and took mine. “Dave Starsky.”

His hand was warm and firm and somehow…familiar. Surprised by my odd reaction, I let go and wandered around his easel, where other finished pieces leaned on display and for sale.

“These are really nice, too.”

“Thanks again,” he said, returning to his work. “Please, have a seat.” He waved his brush at a second canvas chair, there for those who might want to buy a quick portrait. “I’ll paint you.”

“Oh, that’s ok, I’d…”

“Please. No charge. You have remarkable eyes, baby-blue eyes. I’d like to try to capture that, with your permission.”

I felt my face warm. I never could get past blushing when I was paid a compliment about my looks.

“Besides,” he said, fishing a small, fresh canvas out of a nearby narrow box, “I’d like to just talk with you a while. It can get lonely sitting here with people looking and walking on by.”

“But I’ve interrupted your other painting,” I protested.

He shrugged. “Nah. I’m stuck a little. Trying to puzzle it out. Sometimes taking a break helps.”

His voice had a slight accent to it and I tried to discern what it was without coming out and asking. I sat in the chair and found myself easily relaxing while he set about getting a new palette of paint.

“What do you do, Hu-Ken? Can I call you Ken?”

“Sure. I’m a police detective with the Bay City Police Department.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m Dave. Detective? What a coincidence. I’ve just started at the academy. Hope to graduate in the fall.”

“You’re going to be a cop?”

He glanced at me, and then put brush to canvas. I noticed he painted with his left hand. A silver pinkie ring glinted in the rays of the lowering sun. “Yep, eventually. Being an artist just isn’t always a well-paid venture. I’ve been drivin’ a cab but it’s not enough for me. I want to really do somethin’. Make a difference, if I can.”

I thought about my own reasons for being a cop. Initially, they had been like Starsky’s — to make a difference. By now I was a cynic; get rid of one weed and three more pop up, but I keep trying. Maybe Dobey was right — I still needed a partner. I found myself wishing there was anyone already available like Dave Starsky. My loneliness struck me again. I guess I wanted a friend.

For a while we both were quiet, lost in our own thoughts, when he said casually, “You know, I have an old painting back at my place that I’m realizing looks kind of like you.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. It didn’t occur to me until I started painting — and now I’m thinking, your eyes are a lot like that man’s, too.”

“May I see?”

“That painting? It’s back home. This one? I’ve hardly started — I guess I’ll have to take a picture of you and finish it later. You’re a great subject and I don’t wanna rush it, plus I’m starting to lose the light.”

Faced with saying goodbye, I suddenly didn’t want our time to end. “Hey, you like pizza?”

His eyes lit up as he gazed at me over the canvas top. “Sure do. You hungry?”

“Yeah. A-and I’d like to see that painting. Would it be too much if I were to get a pizza and bring it to your place?”

I swear the man’s smile could light the night. So many men I’d gazed at in the past, wishing; others who’d come on to me and I accepted, but no one had ever drawn me in so quickly, so completely, like this.

“Sure. Lemme write down the address.” He patted his body, digging into his smock’s pockets until he dug out a small notepad and pencil and scribbled. “Here you go.”

I read the address and then put it in my shirt pocket. Starsky began to pack things up. “Can I help you with this?”

“That’d be great. My car is over there.” He pointed at a red monstrosity, huge, with a loud white stripe running down the side. “Ain’t she a beaut?”

I wasn’t about to let something as lame as a car come between me and this intriguing man. “Yeah, she’s great.” I picked up the crate he’d packed full of his finished work and headed over.

He followed behind me with his easel and his paint kit. “I gotta clean these brushes. Oh, and take your picture.”

“We can do that at your place, right?” I asked, before running back to get the box of blank canvases. When I brought it back I found him watching me from the open door of his car, leaning on the car’s door frame, giving me a good once over from my feet to my eyes.

“Bloody gorgeous,” I heard him murmur as I stuck the box in the trunk.

“What?” I asked, thinking I’d misheard him.

“Uh…nothing, just thinking I’d want to take your picture in full daylight. To get those eyes, you know.”

I nodded, a tiny thrill running through me when I realized that I hadn’t misheard a thing. “Okay, well, I’ll get myself home and cleaned up a bit, grab a pizza and bring it over. Say…an hour or so?”

“Got it. See you then, Hu-, uh…Ken.”

I realized he had made that error before. It sounded like he was going to say “Hutchinson,” which was reminiscent of the squad room, so I shrugged it off, thinking that if he were in the Academy then he was used to last name references.

I waved as he pulled away, revving his engine.

I like the feeling I had, that my engine was revved, too.

Suddenly he put it in reverse and sped back to me. He stuck his head out the window. “Hey, what kinda pizza you gettin’?”

I tested him out of curiosity. “Oh, I usually get something with lots of veggies on it.”

He grimaced, then flashed that winning smile. “Think you could put some pepperoni on maybe half that?”

I grinned back. “Sure, pal.”

“Thanks!” he said, waving out the window as he finally took off.

I watched the car make its way down the road, until it turned left and with a roar was gone.

I jogged back to my place, enjoying the twilight and examining my feelings. Here he was, a total stranger whose paintings I just happened to see, who tells me he has a painting back home of someone he thinks somehow resembles me, and the next thing I know I’m anxious to be with him again, to not just see the painting, but to be with him. Strangely, it felt like we knew each other, like I’d been with him for a long while rather than an hour, the way I knew he’d ask about pepperoni for his pizza.

*~*~*

I stared at it, unable to look away.

They were my own eyes.

Staring at myself on the canvas, I could somehow appreciate that the artist had captured something wistful in my expression. As if whatever it was I was observing, I wouldn’t be able to hold onto it, that I would miss it someday.

I felt a deep ache in my chest and I put my hand there, stroking with my fingers to calm myself.

Of course, it couldn’t actually be me as the subject. Dave had told me that the painting had been dated as about two hundred years old, found in a “priest hole” of an old homestead in Scotland, inherited by Dave’s family and as he proved to be the artist in the family, was given into his care. Only a few facts about the artist had been discovered.

And yet — the very color of my eyes, the odd shape of my eyelids, (which, as a detective, I thought was a good way to hide my thoughts); the crease between my brows (which I’d always disliked as being too loud an indicator that I was pissed off or worried). What seemed out of place was a fall of long blond hair.

The whole thing made me feel like I was missing something — or someone. A puzzle piece that would explain this painting, and that somehow, deep inside, I should know what — or who — that piece was.

“Family member of yours?”

“I–I don’t know. Kind of looks that way, I guess,” I stammered.

“Here,” he said, handing me a beer. “Looks like you could use it.”

I downed about half the bottle and then I looked at the painting again. Dave had brought it out and leaned it against the wall so that when I came in through the front door, greasy pizza box in hand, it met me front and center.

Now Dave led me to the sofa and pushed me gently on the shoulder so I would sit. I shuffled through photographs he then handed me; shots of more paintings done by this other Starsky. Aristocratic noblemen and prim, high-bosomed ladies, white-wigged and dressed in the fashions of the time.

He told me didn’t know much of the history of the artist. “All I know is I’m related somehow, and he claimed to be Jewish, which is probably why there’s not much information on him in the records. Guess I inherited the artistic gene from him.”

“The likeness really is amazing,” I said, putting the pictures on the coffee table. I finished my beer and accepted the fresh one he offered. “I don’t even know what to think.”

“Well, how about right now you tell me more about you, huh?” He sat down at my left and we each turned slightly in order to see each other. He was close but I had no desire to pull away. He rested his right arm along the top of the couch, his fingers near enough to touch me if he wanted.

“Not much to tell. Raised in Minnesota, moved out here because I was tired of the snow. And my family, well…” As I raised the bottle to my lips, I noted he watched its journey and then his gaze lingered on my mouth. I licked my lips nervously.

“What about your family?” His fingers now rested on my shoulder; probably a pat of reassurance but my dick understood another interpretation. I drank some more.

“They had plans for me. They don’t like that I’m a cop. A lawyer would have been all right, but…I like being a detective. Solving puzzles.”

He nodded. “Me, too.”

“W-what about you?” I asked, finding myself staring deeply into his dark blue eyes. Such amazing eyes.

“Also not much to tell. Not from here. Wanted a change. Wanted to find…something for myself.”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, back east,” he said vaguely, and I didn’t care. His fingers had reached my neck, stroking. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

“Got a girlfriend?”

“N-no.”

He smiled crookedly. “Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He leaned all the way in and kissed me then; soft, warm, questioning. My dick tried to leap out of my pants but I sat still, let Starsky do the work while I tried really hard to stop my head from spinning.

Eventually I gave in and opened my mouth to him, and…

Oh, god.

The taste of him answered every question, the feel of him against me solved every riddle. I knew him, I knew this man, all he stood for, all he meant, in one kiss.

I finally pulled back, stunned.

“It’s all right, isn’t it, Hu-Ken?” he murmured, his face a little slack.

“How did we…?” I couldn’t even form the full question.

“Don’t.” He kissed me again and this time his hands cupped my face and I was lost again.

At some point we stumbled to the bedroom. I revealed his body slowly, as much as I wanted to rip his clothes off. I wanted him, so badly, and yet I wanted to slow it down, to know everything.

To his credit, he seemed to understand. His hands were just as gentle and reverent and when we were both finally fully nude, we stood apart, looking each other up and down.

“Bloody gorgeous,” he murmured, and I knew then that that was exactly what he’d said about me back at the beach.

“You are,” I answered, and reached for him, entwining our hands. His ring pressed against my finger as I squeezed.

We tumbled on to the bed, wrestling. Oh, how I loved having someone so strong in my arms, the press and pull of need and want, fighting to release and be released. His hand took my cock, and I took his and we laughed when we realized it wasn’t as easy when he was left-handed and I was not. Eventually we found our space and our rhythm and it was good, so good, I swear I heard myself say “I love you” as I came. I think he heard, too.

*~*~*

Afterwards, we lay sated in his bed. I stroked my chest lazily with my fingers as my other hand fingered his lengthening curls. Idly I thought of how he’d need to get them cut again for Academy requirements.

“You turn me on, doin’ that.”

“Hm? What?”

“That, with your fingers, on your chest.”

I chuckled. “I guess it’s a habit. I get nervous, or I get relaxed, I do it.”

“Fuckin’ sexy, is what it is.”

I reached to stroke his. “I love your chest. Furry.”

He groaned in response, his head falling back and eyes closing. I tweaked a nipple and he groaned again. I noted his cock began to swell again.

“Already?”

He opened one eye. “Fuckin’ sexy, like I said.”

I pointed my finger at him. “You’re –”

“Fallin’ fast.” He kissed me to shut me up and I eagerly tumbled with him again.

*~*~*

“Tell me more about the painting.” It was three a.m. and we sat at his kitchen table, dressed only in our jeans, eating the reheated pizza we’d forgotten in our passion. Two rounds of getting off had left us starving for more than just each other. He’d heated it up and presented it with a flourish. “Tuck in,” he’d said and I chuckled at his old English.

“I don’t have much. Like I said, he’s some ancestor of mine and it was found under the house he used to live in centuries ago.”

I glanced over at it. My own eyes stared back, almost pleading with me to find out more.

“So the artist is your ancestor, and that guy looks enough like me that I would guess he’s one of my ancestors.” I took another drink of beer. “Seems oddly coincidental.”

“Ain’t it, though?” he asked, twisting a string of cheese around his finger. I grimaced and threw a napkin at him.

“Don’t you want to know more?”

He wiped his hands and shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t have the resources to go looking. I’m mostly broke, I’m at the Academy, and I can’t up and go to Scotland and see what I can find. I mean, I want to, I just can’t. I figure, he’s dead. It’s not like he’s gonna come back to life or anything. I’m the only David Starsky alive that I know of. Whatever there is to find out, I figure it’ll still be there when I’m able to go track anything more down.”

He was right, and I knew it. It was my need to know that was fueling this drive to find out more, not his. He was happy where he was, and I couldn’t blame him.

He took me by the hand and led me back to bed. I hadn’t had sex three times in one night ever before, but with him, well…I couldn’t get enough.

Just before dawn I lay in his bed, his head on my chest while he slept. I held his hand and stroked the silver ring as I stared out the window at what few stars I could see through the Bay City haze and light pollution, and I knew I needed to know far more.

The man in that painting was me. It made no sense, but I knew it to be true. It had to be true.

In the morning, I called a travel agent, and when Starsky came out of the bedroom, adorably rumpled and sleepy, I told him my plan.

*~*~*

“You sure about this?” Dave was helping me pack and then taking me to the airport. For the last month we’d been trading off whose place we slept at; last night he’d stayed with me, and we’d made love like we’d never see each other again.

During the days I went to work while he went to the academy, and on any rare day off together, we spent it in bed. It was heaven, and I know Dobey was noticing the changes in me. He kept looking at me sideways, like he expected me to burst out into song at any moment. I can say that I felt like doing that sometimes, my heart was so full, but I limited it to my guitar, in the safety of my own home and only for Dave. But Dobey never asked me about my new attitude, instead gruffly harping on me about getting another partner while I kept putting him off. I didn’t want to deal with another new man right then, work or not. Besides, I was finally using vacation time that had been building up, and Dobey was happy to sign off on my request. New partner decisions could happen when I was back, and I’d closed or transferred my current cases to other detective teams in the squad.

I folded another shirt and then put my hands on my hips. “No, I’ve only paid for a three week trip to Scotland just to fuck with your mind. Of course I’m sure.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, putting his hands palms out. He turned slightly away and walked to the window. “I wish I could come with you.” His voice held a strange note; sadness, perhaps.

“Me, too.” I came up behind him and put my arms around him, resting my chin on his shoulder. He tilted his head back and caressed my head with his. I turned him carefully. His gaze was lost, far away, and pulled him back in for a kiss that he seemed to resist for a moment, but then melted against me and our tongues dueled. I tried hard to capture the memory of his taste. When we finally pulled back, I had to think about what it was we’d been talking about. “I’ll call you.”

He shook his head, grasping the back of my neck, pressing his forehead to mine. “Too expensive. Just send me a postcard when you get there, okay? Here,” he said, pressing something into my hand.

“What’s this?” I opened it to find a man’s ring, antique, wide and gold, with a sapphire in its center. “Uh, Dave? What’s this mean?”

He laughed. “I ain’t asking you to marry me. Yet, anyway,” he said with a sly grin. “But I felt like giving ya a goodbye present, so you’d remember me.”

“As if I could forget you,” I answered, pulling him into a hug.

“You’ll wear it, the whole time?”

“Sure.” I smiled, leaned in to kiss him, put the ring on — it fit, and remarkably well — and turned back to my suitcase. “Grab my shaving kit, would you?”

He snuck up behind me when he returned, wrapping his arms around my waist as he dropped my kit into the bag. “You know I’m gonna miss you like crazy.” His hand wandered down to my fly, but I slapped it away.

“Hey, I’m gonna miss my plane, you keep up like that.”

“I like keeping you ‘up.’ Aw, we got time for a quickie.” He spun me around and kissed away my protests. While our tongues were busy, his fingers expertly found and unzipped my jeans, pulling my rapidly swelling cock out the opening. I groaned into his mouth.

He pulled back, pushed me up against the wall, and dropped to his knees. He popped open the button for better access and then sucked me in to his hot, wet mouth, his fingers rolling my balls.

It was all I could do to hold on. Faintly I questioned myself at being willing to leave this man I’d fallen so completely for, as my fingers tangled in his hair and I began to mindlessly pump.

“Oh, god, Dave,” I gasped, whacking my head against the wall. “Fuck.” I came hard and fast, and his strong arms caught me as I slid down the wall.

“Now, you’re ready to go,” he said, smirking as he patted my cheek, then grew quiet. “Don’t forget me, Hutch. Ken.”

I laughed away the strange tone of his voice and use of my last name, though it was more of a weak chuckle. As if I ever could.

*~*~*

I didn’t let him come with me into the airport. We wouldn’t be able to kiss goodbye in there, but in the relative privacy of the drop-off lane, where everyone else was too busy getting luggage out of their trunks to pay any attention to us, our lips met briefly.

“See ya.” He was gruff, holding emotions in check. He’d been edgy all day, taking my hand and rubbing the ring I wore for him.

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Don’t forget my postcard.”

“The moment I get there.” I gave him one more kiss, a pat on the shoulder, and then got out of the car and grabbed my bag from the trunk.

I waved goodbye as he drove off, already missing him, but anxious to get on with my search.

*~*~*

My flight to New York passed uneventfully. I reviewed the information Starsky had given me. All that was known was that the David Starsky of 1775 was a quietly popular portrait artist, lived alone, had no direct descendants, and vanished sometime that year. A notation was found in the church records that he disappeared, perhaps through foul play, but no one came forward and no clues were ever found. That was the last of him.

My New York layover was only thirty minutes. I rushed for a sandwich to counter the airline food I’d already been served, and made my plane with five minutes to spare. I purchased two tiny bottles of whiskey and soda water from the flight attendant, downed one immediately while tucking the other in my backpack, made small talk with my seatmate — an older lady going home to England after visiting her son and his family in New York — and as she settled in with her knitting, I chose one of my books on Scottish history.

The flight was over seven hours. When we landed, I felt groggy though I’d slept a few hours. It was after ten a.m. London time, but my body insisted it was two in the morning back in California. I missed my bed partner: his snoring, his penchant for throwing a leg over mine as he slept like the dead, wrapping me up in his arms and pinning me to the mattress like he was protecting me from a monster under the bed.

How his lengthening curls felt on my face, tickling my nose.

How strong he was, how safe I felt, even though it wasn’t like I needed protection. I felt like I had someone who had my back. Like a partner.

And I had just left him behind.

*~*~*

Scotland mornings dawned grey and damp in March, with a mist flowing in from the sea. I drove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets as I waited for the tour guide to arrive. After landing in London, exchanging my money and getting some food into my belly, I’d hopped yet another plane and then a train, and finally a ferry to arrive at my destination. My accommodations were a nearby bed and breakfast in a small village called Calanais on the Isle of Lewis, and today I and my fellow tourists would be walking a short distance to one of the ancient standing stone circles of the same name. The postcard I sent to Starsky had a picture of these very stones, and on the text side, I wrote: “Dear S., It’s cold! Missing you keeping me warm. Going to these stones today. Haven’t found much else but will keep looking. Thinking of you all the time. Will see you in a few weeks. H.”

Following the leads from Starsky, I poked through old records in the village church to confirm what I already knew, and wrote all manner of things in a small journal, everything from what I might have discovered to my own thoughts about this country and its history. The dusty old records had returned the name “David Starsky” only a couple of times, and no baptism record was recorded in the church files, nor a final death notice since he had simply disappeared. I suspected that it was the man I was looking for, if the claim of his Jewish ancestry was true and he had never converted to any form of Christianity.

It’d been a rocky start. For being in a foreign country, English hadn’t been a problem; accent had. After a few embarrassing tries at repeating back what someone had said to me, I fell into the rhythm of lilt and emphasis and had even begun to find my own accent changing to match, which pleased me somehow. Perhaps I felt like I fit in here, in this wild and open place, away from the dirt and grime of the people and streets of Bay City. And as long as I was here, and feeling more comfortable, I thought getting my head out of the archives and checking out the countryside was a good idea.

“All right, me lads and lassies, are ye ready to step back in time five thousand years?” The tour guide was an older man, grey and bearded, with a twinkle in his eye and a strong step. “On with ye, now.”

We marched along behind the man, who identified himself as Colm, as he gave some history on these particular stones. “There’s no sure knowledge as to what their meaning is,” he said. “We’ve plenty of theories, though, and they all make for good fairy tales for the bairns.”

The sun continued to rise and burn off the mist as we walked and pretty soon the stones loomed before us. They stood as silent sentinels, as if holding the answers to time and the universe, if we’d only just ask. Oddly, I felt as if my own sense of self changed the nearer to them we got.

“Many believe that these stones were used in rituals relating to the moon and stars. Weather prediction? Seasons changing, time passing, ancient god worship? Many still practice worship during the pagan Feast days,” he continued. “Tomorrow is the spring equinox and there’ll be those dressed in pagan clothes, chanting and marching up here in the morning at sunrise, if ye’re willing to rise sae early.”

I shivered. As I drew closer to the stones, most particularly the large center stone, I began to feel as if I were being tugged from the inside — as if I were being turned inside out. Yet I could still recognize that I was walking, listening, and moving around without any trouble. It was almost as if there were a second me, merging with my own self, a ghost taking up the same space. I couldn’t shake it until we’d walked away again.

*~*~*

Time.

I couldn’t sleep that night. Colm had told many stories, tales of pagan worship and the sun and stars, but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that time — history — was a better explanation — except I had no explanation at all. I felt as if I were tied to a chair while images were being flashed before me — I could understand what I saw in the moment an image flashed, but I couldn’t stop any one image and focus on it to understand only it.

At four-thirty, I gave up, dressed, and threw a backpack over my shoulder. In it were my journal, a camera, and the photographs that Prof. Starsky had given me as reference for the paintings his ancestor had created. I tiptoed down the hall and paused at Mrs. McCleary’s door to listen. I heard nothing, although in past mornings I had been awakened by her snoring. Still, not everyone snored all night, and I snuck into her kitchen and nabbed an apple and a leftover scone from the pantry for my breakfast before setting off on my own for the Calanais stones.

As I walked I ate and marveled at how quiet it was. Bay City was a noise unto itself; seemingly endless traffic, smog, people making a racket simply by living together so closely. But here, the air was clear, the land open, and I felt free and far more relaxed. The disturbing feelings I’d had while at the stones had faded when we left. I wondered if they’d return when I did.

The eastern sky began to turn pink as I approached the stones. Movement caught my eye and I remembered what Colm had said yesterday about continuing pagan rites. I wasn’t worried about being seen; Colm had indicated it was a regular event during the feast times and often people braved the early morning hours to observe, as long as they didn’t interfere.

I stood several yards away, bemused by the women I recognized from the village, certainly having never imagined them in a ritual such as this. My jaw dropped when my own temporary landlord marched by, proper and plump Mrs. McCleary, gowned in white, barefoot, and one hand in the air, chanting in a foreign tongue. And there I’d been, worried I’d wake her as I raided her kitchen and snuck out of the house!

The sun broke over the horizon. The chanting grew louder, the marching faster, the movements more frenzied. I could feel it in my center, this vibration of life and magic and I don’t know what. I felt strangely energized, as if an electrical current had gently worked its way through my body. I couldn’t understand what was being said — old tongues, I guessed, handed down in chant and dance. It made the experience all the more magical and mysterious, hypnotic, and just a little creepy. My body began to feel disassociated from my mind. My molecules were dancing, shuddering, threatening to take me apart.

The center stone had a split in the top and the moment the sun shone through that crevice, the chanting reached its peaked and all at once, stopped. The silence was absolute. No early bird calls, no voices. I gasped in a breath. My heart thumped in my chest and I felt as though my hair was standing on end. The chanting music had swallowed me in to its mystery world of sensation and now I had been spit out. A small breeze ruffled my hair as if to remind me that the world still existed and at that moment, the ladies all began to chatter, to pick up their skirts and make their way back to piles of coats and Thermoses of coffee, as if they’d just ended a typical church service.

“I guess they did, in a way,” I said to myself. No endless Sunday morning sitting stiffly in a pew, dressed in the bow tie my mother insisted I wear, even into my teenage years, and listening to a pastor drone on and on, had ever affected me this way, leaving me feeling small and insignificant in the face of great and beautiful power. Humbled, I ducked behind one of the outer stones to hide from Mrs. McCleary and waited there until all the ladies were on their way back to the village. I pulled out my notebook to write it all down.

The sun had continued its climb, arcing overhead with the promise of a beautiful day. Once I was alone, I walked closer to the center stone, curious to examine it without a tour guide or others interrupting my considerations. As I drew nearer, I once again began to feel a sense of turning inside out — a tug from my heart that led everything else inside me. A crescendo roar filled my ears and I felt myself fall to my knees. Yes. I am yours, I could feel myself saying without words. The stone stood tall before me, its solid bulk reassuring in its very presence, and I reached out to it for support even as I begged it to take me through it.

The earth screamed and ripped apart around me, leaving me on an island of time. The stone cracked open, ragged and moaning from its depths, and I fell into the brilliant darkness it revealed, helpless to stop myself, desperately needing to go.

*~*~*

I awoke face down. I turned my head and observed the darkness that surrounded me. Stars twinkled overhead and the temperature was nowhere near warm, causing me to shiver.

I tried to roll over; every muscle ached and my stomach was threatening to eject my breakfast onto a nearby stone.

The stones.

I squinted in the dark, trying to determine where exactly I was. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the towering monoliths, blacking out a large swathe of the stars above with their bulk.

I finally managed to sit up, holding my throbbing head in my hands. I must have been out for hours. Had no one else come by since the morning to discover me? I felt a little panicky at the thought of being lost, and forgotten. I reached for the ring Starsky had given me, for comfort.

The sapphire was missing.

Instead I could feel a gritty, greasy substance where the stone used to be. Confused, I felt cautiously around me in case it had fallen out. I found my backpack; that was good. At least no one had robbed me of that in the meantime. I scrabbled around me, but didn’t find anything else.

I gave up and thought about standing, but instead I pushed myself backwards until my back rested against one of the stones and caught my breath. When I still felt woozy a few minutes later, I opted to lie down again, using my backpack as a pillow.

I watched the stars wheel overhead, and I felt very, very alone. But for some reason, it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it should. The panicky feeling had left. Instead, I felt strangely at peace. Almost–hopeful.

*~*~*

When I awoke again, the sun was once again rising over the stones. It appeared I was still alone. I sat up cautiously and tried out all my limbs, stretching and popping. I seemed reasonably intact. The earlier nausea had turned to roaring hunger. This didn’t surprise me; after all, it did appear as though I’d lost a whole day. But I had no food; I had not expected to be gone as long as I had been.

Shakily I got to my feet and attempted to walk back to Mrs. McCleary’s.

But the road was gone. Or rather, there was a road–it seemed to be going the right way, but it was nothing but dirt and grass, not nicely paved as it had been two mornings ago.  I turned around; perhaps I was misjudging where I was and the real road was the other way.

No. The grass around the stones was different, too — long and without the same evidence of the trampling that the morning’s marching ritual should have shown.

“What the hell?” I wondered. “Hello?” I called out, not too loudly. A bird returned my call–one trill. Like it was laughing at me.

Truly puzzled now, I followed the road in the direction I believed to be the one I had come from, looking around, trying to think like the police detective I was.

Signs of civilization were missing–literally, the signs. Directions to the stones, indicators back to the village, phone lines…nothing existed anymore.

I began to feel exposed–a sixth sense began to shout, sending me recollections of history lessons and research done before I’d left Bay City, and I began to jog back to Calanais.

The village existed, but the buildings were all different. Smoke rose thinly from chimneys, and thatched roofs replaced shingles. Farms with many sheep now stood where a number of small cottages had once sat…or would sit?

My stomach tightened and threatened to bring up whatever might be left in it. Then I saw a red-headed boy emerge from one of the farmhouses. He ran out toward a barn before spotting me.

“Hullo,” the boy said, raising his hand tentatively. “Can I help ye with somethin’?”

He was dressed oddly, in a kilt and long shirt, and the cold fist that twisted in my belly grew. I felt myself swallow convulsively. Not alone…but what to say? “Well, I guess I’m a little lost.”

“Hard to get lost on an island, sir. Where might ye be lookin’ for?”

“It’s a who — do you–do you know someone named…Starsky?”

The boy stepped back and his eyes grew wide. “I best get me da.”

All I could do was nod. “I’ll wait here.”

The boy ran back to the house and in a few minutes, a tall man with red hair and long rough beard stepped out of the doorway, dressed similarly to his son in a white shirt and a kilt. “What might ye be wantin’ with David Starsky?”

He exists. The realization made me stammer.

“I-It’s personal, really.”

The man quirked one eyebrow, looked my clothing up and down, then turned his head slightly to speak to his son. “Finish your chores.” When the boy left, he stepped closer to me. “Who are ye?”

I thrust out my hand and tried for a smile. “Ken Hutchinson.”

“And where be ye from?” He ignored my hand.

That question stumped me. I couldn’t explain where I was from. I lowered my arm again. “Far from here. Can you please tell me where to find David Starsky?”

He looked at me a long while and though I wanted to turn on my fierce detective ‘charm’, I resisted, trying to make myself look as harmless as possible.

Finally he pointed his chin over his shoulder. “His place o’er yon hill. Can’t miss it, what with his paintings.”

I thrust my hand out again. “Thank you, uh…?”

“Seamus MacAdam.” This time he took my hand and pumped it, once, but his suspicion remained clear in his expression.

“Mr. MacAdam. Thank you again.”  I set off, casually looking back once I was a fair piece down the road, only to find Seamus still watching me, his boy perched on the fence, staring after me as well.

The hill easily conquered, I descended within half an hour. A wagon with a lone teenage boy driving it went by, and he stared at me and I at him. Beyond that, there were no cars, no noise.

Eventually I came upon a small house with a thin spire of smoke rising from its brick chimney. The house itself didn’t seem like much until I got closer, and then I realized what Seamus meant by the paintings.

The walls were covered with art. Not quite a mural, it depicted scenes of the countryside, sheep and shepherds, streams and rain and clouds.  As I drew closer, I saw the door was painted with a life size portrait — a man with shoulder-length, dark curly hair and dark blue eyes. I had to look again, for I knew that face. As I stared at the painting, taking in every detail the artist had included in the fall of fabric for his kilt and the sparkle in his eye, the door opened and before me stood the very same man in pretty much the same clothes.

Clearly he hadn’t realized I was there, and stepped back into the house with a start. “Oh! Who are you? Wait, don’t move…”

Stunned, I stood there as he vanished back into the house, only to reappear with a large sketch book and a piece of charcoal, furiously scribbling. He grabbed me by the elbow and turned me back to the yard. “Come over here.”

I stumbled over my own feet getting turned around and he flashed a grin at me — a grin that stunned me more. I grin I knew. A crooked, sideways grin I had awakened to every day for weeks.

Back home.

He parked me on a fence post, one foot on the ground and the other dangling, and I finally found my voice again. “David Starsky?”

“Aye. You came for a portrait by me, didn’t you?”

This couldn’t be real. I forced out, “N-not exactly.”

“WHAT?” He said, looking outraged, but the same twinkle as the door-portrait now living in his eye made me think he was joking. My own experiences with his doppelganger back in Bay City fed my belief. My suspicion was confirmed when he laid his pad down. “I apologize. You are so–beautiful. If it doesn’t bother you to be described as such by a man.”

I shook my head. I’d been called as much before, by men who wanted me in their beds. A man that looked like him, in particular.

“You deserve a portrait.”

I shook myself mentally. Okay. I clearly had come back in time to meet…David Starsky’s ancestor, the artist I’d been looking for in the first place.

“Well, that is kind of why I am here.”

He spun around on one foot. “But you said you were not.”

“I said, not exactly.” His voice captured me — not quite the Scottish burr that Seamus had, more European. Starsky’s accent back home seemed to have traces of it.

He finally really stopped and looked at me, up and down, examining my clothing, my hair, the bag I carried. “You look very different.”

“I am a little — lost. But you are who I am looking for.”

“Enigma.”

“I suppose. I woke up near the stones and everything was different for me…”

“The stones?” he said, nodding. “You are from the stones?” He eyed me critically, weighing me, it felt.

I felt exposed suddenly, and shivered.

*~*~*

The smell of food struck strongly and my stomach complained within moments of stepping inside the house. Starsky pointed me at the table and I sat while he brought me a mug of tea and a plate of sausages.

“Eat. While you eat, I will tell you what I think of your appearance here…you can tell me if I’m right.”

I nodded. What else could I do?  I hesitantly took a nibble, gauging the veracity of my stomach. The sausage tasted like heaven and I quickly finished it before taking another.

He walked around the table, as if delivering a school lesson. “You woke up near the stones, you say.  You woke up and it looked different. Wrong. Out of place. Out of…time.”

He stopped behind me and leaned over my shoulder, breathing in my ear. I shivered. Too close. Too much like… “You came from far away, and the stones brought you here.”

I turned to stare at him. He knew. “What year is this?”

“What year? What year do you think it should be?” He swung around and put both hands on the table, leaning in close. “I’ll bet it’s about two hundred years from now.”

I gulped. “1972.”

He drew back slowly, squinting his eyes. The sausages that were so welcome earlier now roiled in my gut. Faintly I could hear a rooster crow outside.

“Two hundred years.” He smacked the table with his hand, then pointed a finger at me. “You are not alone, my friend.” He smiled, and I felt a little dizzy.

“What year is this?” I asked. Then, “I’m not?” when I realized what he’d said.

He shook his head with a sly grin. “They’ve gone back through the stones. You can too. But not yet.”

I shook my head. I knew my mouth was hanging open. “S-slow down. When am I, and why can’t I go back home now?”

He patted me on the shoulder and went to get another plate for himself. “Eat. I’ll tell you all about it.”

*~*~*

Breathing deeply in an attempt for calm, I waited just as long as it took him to bring food to the table. In the meantime, I looked around the house. It was dark — no electric light, of course — with a fireplace in the kitchen. Paintings on canvases were alternately hanging on the walls or leaning against them from the floor. People, animals, landscapes. One very large blank canvas leaned against the back wall, waiting its turn for the hand of the master. A small alcove appeared to be a bedroom of sorts; a curtain hung over the doorway, partially obscuring a bed.

Outside I heard a cow low, and a rooster crowed again.

“Here we are. Tuck in.”

I reached for a biscuit. For a man who appeared to live alone, he could cook well. I looked around again, searching for proof of a female presence.

“No wife.”

I nodded. “Tell me how I got here.”

He took up a cup of tea, poured a healthy dollop of honey into it. “Pagan magic.”

“Magic?”

He nodded as he drank, dabbing the excess liquid from his mouth with the back of his hand. Vaguely I became aware of the sensuality of that act, but I pressed forward.

“I don’t understand.”

“The old folk, the ones who still maintain the ceremonies of the seasons–they bring it out from wherever it lives for the rest of time. On those feast days, when the chants grow loud and the women who do the chants lose themselves in the rhythms of the earth and sky, that’s when the stones open, allow a passage from here to there–or there to here.” He stood, wandered to a canvas. The familiar stones painted there stood in gray relief, and he pointed to a dark crevice. “This was the stone you touched, yes?”

All at once, I remembered. “Y-yes,” I answered, the stone’s scream reverberating once more in my head. The gaping maw of blackness, churning as it sucked me in.

Dimly I became aware of his hand on my neck, pressing. “Between your knees.” I did as he said, missing the warmth of his skin on mine when he let go.

“Better? Drink this.” I warily raised my head. His tea, hot and too sweet, but I drank it anyway.

“Does everyone know?” I asked, a little fearful of the reply.

He helped me to my feet and steered me toward the alcove. “Sit down. No, it’s a rare person who does. Just me, and a few others, usually those who have come through and chosen to stay.”

“They do?”

He sat me on his bed, and knelt to remove my shoes. He gave up on the laces and tugged them off. “A fresh start, they usually say. When they’re willing to admit they’re not from here and the story is pulled out of them.”

“And you believe them?” He had me lying down now, pulling a heavy wool blanket over me.

“Aye, with the stories they tell. Their faces as they tell them. They looked like ye–shocked, scared, and alone. Aye, I believed them.” He took up my hand and stroked my sapphire-less ring with his thumb, nodding as if he’d seen it before. “You sleep, and then ye can tell me your story.” He left then, and I could hear him outside, calling and caring for his animals.

He’d spiked that tea. I could feel the whiskey warming me from the belly out. My eyes wouldn’t rest; they searched out every canvas they could see, but I didn’t see my own.

Eventually, my eyes couldn’t stay open, and I slept.

*~*~*

I slept through the whole day. When I awoke, the room was dark except for low light coming from a lamp on the table. I could smell something warm and savory wafting from the kitchen.

I felt perfectly warm, relaxed, and my fear was set aside for now. Starsky’s calm reassurances had helped. I’m sure the booze in my tea, did too.

I rolled over, looking for him. His back was to me as he busied himself quietly in the kitchen, the long curls bouncing in a light dance across his shoulders.

Slowly my mind began to mull over the truths. I was in the 18th century. Starsky wasn’t overly surprised by my appearance. Others had come–and gone back again–before me.

When could I go back?

He turned to me then, a smile breaking across his face, bright even in the dim light. “You’re awake.”

“How long was I asleep?” I stretched, rubbing my hand over my face.

“About ten hours. It’s past suppertime.”

I sat up slowly. My head ached. “You spiked me.”

He frowned. “I what?”

“Spiked. Put whiskey in my tea.”

He brightened again. “Oh! Aye. Ye needed it.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but he seemed so pleased. “Why did I need it?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and rested one hand on my leg. Already he seemed so familiar with me. “All those who are thrown by the stones need it. It’s only natural.”

I nodded. Of course it was–only natural. “Are you going to tell me about those others?  You said they went back?”

“The stones have thrown many–to here, back…at least I think they go back.”

“You think they do?” A cold fear that I’d been pushing away was back, twisting in my stomach.

Starsky noticed. “Come, have some more tea. I won’t…spike?…it this time. Just hot tea.”

I followed, shivering.

*~*~*

Barely spring brought cool nights, and warmth beckoned. With food in my belly and a cup of whiskey in my hand–at my request, this time–we settled by the fire and he told me what he knew, his speech decorated with hand gestures, gentle touches to my  knee as if to convince me of the truth of these things he’d heard about, and amazed laughs.

“They’ve always come from the future, never the past. I’ve heard tell of many things — inventions — that I cannot imagine in my mind. Things like wagons that move down a road without an animal pulling them.” He paused to consider that, a small smile on his face. “Oh, a box that holds pictures that move — and you can hear the people in the pictures talking, telling stories like a play. Ways to play music over and over again — I’ve heard of so many different ways. No instruments, no people, but music! Metal birds that fly in the air and carry people in their bellies. Lights in houses that require no oil nor match nor flame at all. Are these all things you know of?”

I was stunned at all he already knew. “Yes. A car. Television. Radio and records and tapes. Electric light. All of those. Plus telephones — where you can talk to someone across the world.” I stopped suddenly, my mouth dry. I was lost in this time, cut off from all I knew, and pushed the panic down.

“Yes! That is such an amazing idea. To be able to speak to anyone without writing it all out in a letter and waiting months for a reply, if it was ever received at all.” His gaze grew distant, as if he were remembering. I sipped my tea, waiting for him to come back to the present from his idea of the future. His present, anyway. My own mind drifted, wondering when Dobey would miss me. David. Oh, God. David.

“Starsky, when can I go back?” I kept my voice low, not wanting to startle him.

“I don’t know your name,” he replied, his eyes focusing again. “All this time and ye’re still a mystery man to me. If I were to write ye a letter, who would I address it to?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his sincerity, and be surprised we never got around to my name. “Ken Hutchinson.”

He smiled. The man had a beautiful smile, just like…

I tamped that feeling down as hard as I could. Now was not the time.

Literally.

“Hutchinson. Hutch?”

I shrugged. “I get that a lot.”

“Fits you.” He fell silent again, staring into the flames. I waited again, watching him. Shadows danced across his face, firelight bringing his eyes from darkness to glowing back to darkness again. There was a sadness about him now, and I didn’t know what to say.

My question had gone unanswered. I still wanted to know what my options were, when I could try to go back, how.

“Starsky?”

“Hm? Ah, it’s late. Come,” he said, rising and offering me his hand. “Sleep.”

I asked for someplace to relieve my bladder, and was pointed outside–an outhouse far off, or feel free to pee on a tree nearby. Shivering, I managed my bodily needs, and when I came back in I opted to get most of my clothes off for comfortable sleeping. Starsky seemed curious about the various articles, but not surprised. He didn’t hide very well his crooked grin once I got down to my undershorts and shirt, and I felt a flutter of misplaced excitement.

He pointed to the far side of the bed, against the wall. “Shift over.” As he undressed, it slowly dawned on me that he meant us to share. The flutter increased. Of course. It was his bed, after all.

Oh, God. Dave. He…you…oh, God.

My discomfort wasn’t aided at all by the fact that I wasn’t sleepy. I’d slept the day away already, though I did feel a bit worn out. The warmth of his body as he slid in next to me energized me unexpectedly, and I found myself pressed up against the wall to try and maintain a respectful distance, even as my mind yearned to touch him, to see if he felt like my Starsky back home.

“I c-can sleep somewhere else if you like,” I stammered, but he smiled at me, and the alcove lit up with it. I began to think I wouldn’t survive the night, my emotions were running so high.

“Nay. Bed sleeps warmer with two. Good night, Hutch.”

“Good night, Starsky.” I watched him settle to sleep.

It didn’t take long for him to fall off, snoring softly. I remained awake, watching the flame from a lamp he’d left burning cast low shadows on the walls, trying to climb to the ceiling.

The cold hard truth: I was stuck in the past. And a very handsome, very warm and very familiar, kind man was sleeping beside me.

I shook myself mentally. I rationalized that the growing affection I was feeling for a man I’d know for a day was really just a manifestation of my own need for his descendant back home. I needed someone to cling to, because I was scared.

That’s all it was.

And he was right. The bed was warmer with two. I found myself drifting, daydreaming…about his eyes, damn him. And that smile. And those curls.

I remember thinking, “This is nuts,” just before I finally succumbed to the draw of sleep.

*~*~*

I didn’t sleep very long. In the morning I awoke first and indulged in watching him. My dreams had tossed me between my own time, to Starsky, then back home–to another Starsky. Or the same Starsky? As dreams go, it was all very vague and gauzy, but it made me wonder about this time travel idea.

Starsky had said there were others like me. Ones who had come through the stone–thrown by it, he said–and had returned–or at least gone back through. But did they make it home?

Did they make it home?

Panic welled up in me and I started to shake.

“You all right, Hutch?” Suddenly his face was near mine, his eyes dark and concerned.

I couldn’t answer. I know I must have looked horrible because he immediately took me in his arms.

I remember hearing his voice through the roar of my panic, though I don’t know what he said. He simply murmured softly until my trembling stilled. I managed to raise a shaky hand to my face and wipe at my damp eyes.

“Starsky?” I finally grated out. “Will I get back?”

“I don’t know, Hutch.” He held me closer, my head on his chest, his heartbeat a reassuring reminder of life. Feeling somewhat secure, I drifted back to sleep, my exhaustion pulling me under.

*~*~*

“I feel like I’m sleeping my eighteenth century life away,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my face. Starsky brought me a cup of tea.

“It’s just dawn, and just right. How are you feeling?”

I considered, moving my shoulders around.  “Better. Uh…thanks for…” I gestured at the bed and myself, “taking care of me.”

“Aye, no worry. It’s a shock, I know, landing here.”

I nodded at that very true truth. “Now what?”

“I’ll tell you what I know.”

We spent the morning, eating and talking. I learned that the next time the stone would be open could be months away.

“Feast times are usually when–equinox.”

“Six months.”

Six months of being missing back home. Six months of struggling to survive in a time that I knew both nothing about and yet knew so much more about–for me, this was all ancient history told in a book at school.

“Well, I know someone we can talk to, who might have a better idea.  He always seems to know a lot about a lot. In the meantime, we need to get ye some proper clothes. ”

I looked down at myself. My flared jeans and pullover shirt didn’t exactly fit in here. “Will I have to wear a kilt?”

My expression must have been something to see, for he took one look at me and tossed his head back, warm laughter filling the room. “Aye, at times, you might, but we wear trousers, too, you know.”

He had me stand and eyed me critically. At one point he glanced over at a blank canvas, then back to me.

No.

Yes?

“I’d like to paint ye. You are so striking, so blond and strong. Ye’d make a great subject.”

I realized then I hadn’t actually told him why I was here–why I was looking for him. The painting.

“I-I think you’re supposed to,” I said softly. I couldn’t quite let myself believe it could actually be true.

“I am?” He sounded amused. I sat back down and considered how to say this.

“Well…the reason I came to Scotland in the first place was to look up your history–because of a painting that I saw in my time.”

“One of mine? Which one?” Starsky came closer, dropping to one knee.

I found myself laughing, my head happily spinning. Suddenly things were falling into place.  “You haven’t painted me yet.”

“I just told ye I’d…wait…so I do?” He looked so endearingly puzzled, I had to reach out and take his head in my hands and shake it a little.

“Yes, you do. I’m in a kilt with one foot up on a rock.”  I remembered the photos in my backpack then, and fetched them.

His eyes widened as his hands held the glossy colored pictures carefully. “But that’s just how I–damn!”

Then he took my head and kissed me, living in the moment.

Starsky. His scent filled my nose, inspiring images of my own Dave Starsky to fill my mind. After a few seconds of blinking, we both started laughing.  At that moment, I knew things would be all right. Somehow, he understood me, and I was growing quickly to understand him.

Like partners. Like my partner back home. Could it be, two so exactly alike?

David Starsky.

*~*~*

“First, we must go visit Bear.”

“Bear?” I was struggling with the borrowed kilt and gave up, reaching for trousers instead. “Who or what is Bear?”

He placed a plate of food on the table for me and smiled. “Ah, he is an outlander, much like myself. And you. Ye’ll like him, I think.”

I took a bite of oatmeal, asking, “Why do we see him?”

“He knows of the mysticisms better than anyone. He’ll be able to better tell you about the stones and how they work. You actually like this stuff?”

I stopped, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “It’s great. I eat this at home. Only this is more…real.”

“They eat this in the future?” His face looked horrified.

I had to laugh. “Yes, and a lot more things that haven’t been invented in this time yet.”

“I should love to find food other than this stuff. I eat it because it is plentiful and easy, and good for the system, if you know what I mean–but I don’t like it.”

“Well, I do. Thank you for making it for me.”

“What are these other foods?” He hovered nearby, trying to be nonchalant.

“Well…not everything is healthy and nutritious. Like candy bars. And soda pop. Hot dogs with chili and cheese and onions…”

“Hot dogs? You eat dogs in the future?”

His horror once again made me laugh and affection rose inside me. “They are like…sausages, really. Not as spicy. Made of leftover meats. We put them in a bun–a roll–and many people like to put mustard and ketchup and relish on them. Or chili.”

“What is ketchup? And chili?”

The morning went on as such, with my describing the junk food of the future and his eyes growing wide as flavors and origins captured his imagination. We finished the chores together with my promise that I would attempt to make pizza for him after spending much of my time convincing him that tomatoes were not poison apples.

After a quick lunch of bread and cheese, we set out to visit Bear. Two miles or so down the road we ambled, and we talked together as if we’d known each other for years, which I found endlessly ironic. I told him all about 1970’s Bay City California, enjoying his affectation of disbelief while knowing that he did believe me.  He soaked up information like a thirsty sponge. His childlike enthusiasm for my stories buoyed me. I could get through this, with him, to get back home, to my own Starsky.

Bear’s home looked much like Starsky’s–small with some animals outside. Starsky rapped on the door twice and then we let ourselves in at the invitation of a shouted voice inside.

I know my jaw dropped. He was black.

Now, in my time, this is nothing new, but in this time, in Scotland? Right now in North America, the colonists were about to declare their independence, and many black people lived as slaves. To see a free man here surprised me.

However, meeting Bear felt like being home already. Hiram Beringer was his Scottish name, but he preferred Bear, and gave us both a great hug after shaking our hands. I was so at ease with him that then and there I dubbed him ‘Huggy’ Bear and that dark face cracked in a wide white grin like I’d never seen. He moved like a cat–whip-thin, dancing and bouncing on his feet. All he needed was clothing from my time–not that his clothes were any more usual for this time–and he’d never be noticed differently, except maybe for his exotic accent.

“Huggy,” I said, gratefully downing half a fine mug of beer he’d offered, “How do the stones work?”

He raised his eyebrows. “The stones?” He looked sideways at Starsky, who gave him a small nod of confirmation. “You came through, man?”

“Not intentionally.” I was carefully examining his tunic, purple, and decorated with small shells and a thin gold braid.

“Travelers rarely do.” He shook his head and looked down at his bare, black feet. “It’s going to be some time yet, Mr. Hutch. The stones, I think they only open during Feasts.”

“So Starsky told me. But why–can you explain how it works? Why it works?”

“The old gods, they still have their say. Did you come through with a jewel?”

I drew the ring out of my pocket. I had taken it off; the blackened crater that once was a sapphire felt like a sick reminder of the journey I’d made. Huggy took it from me, and nodded. “When the sun changes the seasons, the people celebrate and the passageway opens. Some come through and see an old world. Others go through, and never return to tell us what they saw. The jewels pay their way.”

The detective part of me bit. “How many have you met, Hug?”

He shook his head. “A good handful.”

“All came from the stones?”

“Yes. All were near the stones during an open time, and all came here.”

“Any guesses why this is the place to come?”

“I’d like to say it’s my beer that brings them here.” He paused to grin at his own joke. “The stones bring them here, to the same place the stones have stood, but in a different time. Travelers always say, it’s about 200 years in the past for them. I’ve never seen anyone come forward from our past. Always a future time. Like you, Mr. Hutch.”

I nodded, remembering that Starsky had told me the same. I glanced at Starsky, who met my gaze with a tiny grin. A gnawing part of me realized, I’d have to leave him behind when I left and I ruthlessly shoved the already-aching thought aside. “Have any gone back?”

Huggy’s smile widened. “Oh yes.” Then he frowned. “At least, they went through. Whether it took them all back to where they came from or not, I do not know.”

“Well, I’ll have to try.” Starsky’s head lowered as I said it, and somehow, I knew that it hurt him.

“Tell me of your time,” Huggy invited. “I can tell you if the stories I’ve heard are the same.”

I described my century and my decade as simply as I could, and Huggy’s eyes grew wider and wider with each revelation. “Yes, Hutch. I have been told of machines that fly in the sky, many coming to Scotland in that way, as you did. Machines that allow you to talk to someone far away. For you to describe them as well, it must be true.”

I nodded, draining my mug. “All true, Hug. And I wish I had a telephone to the future, that’s for sure.”

“How did you come to be here, Hutch?” Huggy asked, refilling their mugs. “Why were you in Scotland at all? You traveled far, before you traveled further.”

“There was a painting.” I glanced at Starsky, who returned my look with a small sideways grin. “Starsky will paint me here, and I found it–will find it?–in the future.”

I described the painting in as much detail as I could, before recalling the packet in my duffel. “Have you seen photographs?”

Starsky shook his head, but Huggy nodded. “I have seen these papers with pictures that are not painted or drawn.”

“Damn. I left it back at Starsky’s.”

“No matter. I will come tomorrow tonight, if that’s all right? I can bring a cask.”

Starsky brightened? “Aye? I’ll have sausages.”

Huggy wrinkled his nose. “I think I will cook for you when I get there, too. You do passably, but I can do better, man.”

Starsky had to laugh and I joined in. Huggy turned to me. “You, my brother. You and I and Starsky–we are not from this place, but for now, we are of this place. I shall think back, and check with some other people I know, and see what I can find out for you. What it may take to send you home again.”

“Thanks, Huggy.” I shook his hand firmly, and his white smile was brilliant in his dark face.

*~*~*

The walk back to Starsky’s house was quieter than our journey to Huggy’s. I was long lost in my thoughts of how to survive the next few months until the time passage opened again.  Starsky didn’t question me, simply led me home–or to what I’d be calling home for the next few months.

The stabbing fear deep in the pit of my stomach grew stronger. Too many “What-ifs” ran through my mind.

What if the time portal didn’t open?

What if I didn’t have a jewel?

What if it did open but wouldn’t let me through?

What if something happened to prevent me from getting to the stones on time?

What if I decided to stay?

That last one snapped me out of my funk. Of course I wasn’t going to want to stay! I had a life and friends and a job back home, and Starsky…

I stopped, rubbed my chest. The pain had spread.

Next thing I knew I was seated on a nearby fallen log, my head pushed between my knees.

“Breathe, Hutch.”

Too much like David back home. It helped, and it didn’t help. I felt beaten and battered, torn in soul between then and now, and my mind spun dangerously close to hysteria.

“Hutch. Listen to me. Look at me. Hutch, now,” Starsky ordered and I obeyed, couldn’t help but obey that voice I knew so well but didn’t know at all, raising my head and opening my eyes. His deep blue ones bored straight into mine, commanding my attention, pinning me to my past, still in the future.

“You are going to be all right. We’re gonna get ye through this. We’re gonna get ye home again. I will do everything I can to make it happen. Lean on me. Don’t lose your sense of self. I’ve seen people lose their sense of self and we lost them completely, lost in their minds. But I’ve also seen folks go back through. Listen to me. We will get through this together. It’s me and thee, eh?”

I nodded. What else could I do? I had to trust him, trust Huggy. I had no one else.

He helped me back to my feet, put his arm around my waist and walked me home, talking the whole time to keep from wandering off in my mind again.

*~*~*

Starsky fed me tea and toast, and out of courtesy I forced it down, but nothing helped much. I crawled into the bed–our bed–and turned my face to the wall. I wasn’t trying to shut him out, but I just couldn’t take any more reminders of where I was–or rather, where I wasn’t–just then.

Starsky largely left me alone. Occasionally I would hear him, working, painting, feeding the animals outside. Once he came to the bed and covered me more snugly with a blanket. He stroked my shoulder, and then let me be. My heart, though lost and scared, both warmed and saddened at his touch and I knew that when I did finally leave, I’d be leaving yet another Starsky behind. Oh, god, Dave. It hurts. It hurts.

The light waned and eventually Starsky came to bed. I kept my back turned, though I was getting sore from lying in one position so long. He settled, pulling quietly at the blankets until he had what he needed, and then was still.

Long moments passed. I listened to the silence that wasn’t so silent. My breathing, his breathing. Wind outside. The creaking of the bed as he shifted in it.

I turned over. His face blended into the shadows, his eyes lost in the darkness, yet I knew he wasn’t asleep. He was as familiar to me as Dave back home was. And when he pulled me close to comfort me, when I realized I was crying, I gave up the pain and laid it all on him. He held me down and I beat him up, pounding on his shoulders and his back, thrashing until it built up in my chest and out my throat.

I’ve heard of primal screams before. Now I know what one is.

Catharsis.

I felt myself go limp against the mattress. For the moment, I felt at peace, drained of all the pain and rage and anger. When I opened my eyes again, I found him hovering over me, still dark in the shadows.

“I’m sorry.” I turned away again, ashamed at my weakness.

His hand turned my face back to him, and he pressed his forehead against mine.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “For whatever you need.”

I could feel his hardness against my thigh. Oh, David. Forgive me. I need…I need…

I raised shaking hands to grasp his head between them. It didn’t take much effort to kiss him, and he tasted–

Oh GOD

He tasted just like Dave back home. My own Starsky. The feel of him, the scent and taste and sparkling eyes and OH GOD that mole on his cheek and my mind convinced itself that I must be dreaming, I had to be dreaming, he was here with me, touching just so, and kissing me there, and there, and on my neck and OH GOD DAVE — STARSKY—

When I awoke, his head lay on my chest, his long curly locks draped around me as if he were a drunken Captain Hook from the cartoon of Peter Pan.

Oh, David.

Not only had I gone two hundred years away from him, I’d just made love to his ancestor, another man who preferred other men…

What were the odds?

I couldn’t comprehend any more conflicting thoughts. It was all too confusing, though my sticky cock proved that something really had happened that night.

I talked myself down from my panic, for Starsky snored against me, a pleasant rumble, and he was warm and soft and firm. For now, I was safe. One day at a time.

I held him tighter, imagining him as the man I loved, and I slept.

*~*~*

Morning’s light crept in, lighting the alcove with a cheery yellow glow. No mist or fog this morning, apparently. The idea of a warmer day cheered me, even as I snuggled deeper into the blankets, curling around Starsky’s body. Remnants of last night’s activity came to me in bits and pieces, and I found I didn’t care much. I had needed the release, needed the loving, and this era’s Starsky had given his body to me to help achieve that goal.

I recall his moan as he came, after allowing me to frantically strop my cock against his, my face pressed into his neck. The sound of his passion inflamed mine and I had followed him over the divine cliff, the pleasure of it all soothing my jangled nerves and relaxing me enough to sleep.

Replaying the pleasant memories, I felt my cock hardening again, filling past my usual morning erection. I was lying on my side, my front to Starsky’s back, and as it rose it crept toward his naked ass, seeking warmth.

A warm chuckle rumbled through his back. “Ye near killed me last night, and ye’re wanting it again already?”

“Thank you,” I whispered into his ear. I didn’t know what else to say.

He turned over and in the morning light, his blue eyes glowed. “Ye’re welcome. It’s not like I didn’t get somethin’ out of it myself. Ye’re bloody gorgeous, you know.”

I huffed a startled laugh, remembering how Dave had said that about me, and nodded. “‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.’”

He raised an eyebrow and I explained, “It’s the lyrics to a song back home.”

“Ah. And…ah…you have someone back home?”

I nodded.

“What’s her name?”

Damn. How was I going to explain this?

“Uh…well…I…well…” I felt my face turn red.

He gave me a knowing look, then dropped his gaze. He spoke softly, shyly. “Or should I ask…his name?”

“You like men too?” I asked, dodging the question while fearing I had taken far too much from him last night. He’d come eagerly, every time.

He nodded once. “Aye. It’s not something I talk about often, but as you can see, I haven’t a wife.”

My erection had abated with our conversation and I leaned up on one elbow. “You have to lie about it?”

“Don’t you?”

I thought about that. For the most part, I guess I did…it wasn’t like my fellow officers were aware that took home more men than women on a date. They knew I’d been married in the past, but divorce was so common, no one thought much of it. I knew the places to go, recognized the signs, and Starsky — my Starsky–well, we had just clicked. We just knew.

“I guess I do…well, it’s more a failure to volunteer the information. There are many gay men in my time, not really hiding it.”

His eyes widened. “And other people accept this?”

I shrugged. “Some do, some don’t, some just don’t want to know.”

He thought about that for a while. “Freedom,” he whispered at one point. I simply nodded.

“Of sorts. In some places, it’s still very dangerous to be out.”

He tilted his head at the window. “Out?”

I smiled. “Out of the close–it’s a phrase used back home, implying that people who are gay–homosexual–live inside a ‘closet’ that hides their true selves for safety reasons.”

“There are many strange things in the future,” he mused, then grinned widely.

I agreed. My stomach rumbled.

“But first, normal things. Like food.” He jumped from the bed, beautifully nude. I watched him as he reached for his shirt.

“Starsky. I mean it — thank you.”

“Ye’re welcome.”

*~*~*

Huggy arrived at midday, a keg jauntily perched on his shoulder. “Beer is here, my good men!” he called as strolled up, setting the keg at his feet while Starsky wrestled with a tartan.

He’d determined that today he’d begin to sketch and paint me, as he knew he would, as I’d told him he would. I wasn’t settling into a kilt easily, though, and I’d laugh and insist he was tickling me as he’d reach around my body and under the kilt, adjusting and fitting. At one point we fell to the ground, rolling and wrestling, and afterwards picked bits of grass and hay from our hair, laughing the whole while.

While my apprehension remained, Starsky’s openness and charm allowed me to relax. Our banter was easy, sometimes making veiled references to our passion the night before. Often he’d ask me to explain another facet of the future and I did my best to paint the most literal picture I could and I got a real kick out of his expressions of disbelief.

“There,” Starsky finally said, stepping back to look me over head to toe. “Aye, that’ll do.”

He led me to a rock not far from the paddock and I placed my foot on it just the way I remembered from the painting. My apprehension returned; thoughts of how to get back home suddenly homing in on me as our playacting tapered off.

“You look stiff, my man,” Huggy said, pouring beer into a mug and handing it up to me. “Relax.”

I took a gulp. It was strong, but good. I nodded my thanks, took another swallow, and handed the mug back to him.

“Stand still for a few minutes, Hutch, while I get some basic sketches down,” Starsky asked. He looked the busy artist–already there was charcoal on his cheek and I could see bits of grass at the top of his hair that I’d overlooked before. It made him look both childlike and vulnerable, but all that belied the strength of him, the beauty and charisma and the man.

“I spoke with The White Witch,” Huggy said, rather casually, and Starsky’s head jerked around.

“And?”

“White Witch?” I asked, frowning. “Who is that?”

“She is a student of the old gods,” Huggy said. “Her mother taught her the ways of the spirits, and her mother before her, stretching back many, many generations.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head in reverence, the gold braid in his purple cap reflecting the sunlight. “She has sent many back through the stones. Some say, she’s been and back herself.”

I lowered my foot from the rock, but at Starsky’s huff of impatience, I put it back. “She has? How? What do I need to do?”

Huggy glanced at Starsky, and when I looked back towards him as well, his expression hurt my heart. His eyes bore into mine and I knew he wasn’t ready to let me leave yet. And not just because of the painting.

“Feast times,” Starsky reminded Huggy. “It’s only at equinox, they say.”

“Solstice, too, according to my sources. And the White Witch confirms it.” Huggy poured more into the mug and this time handed it to Starsky, who refused it, intent on his sketch. “It’s harder, but it can be done.”

“Safely?” I asked, reaching for the mug, quickly figuring in my head how far off the summer solstice was. Much sooner than autumn equinox, that was for certain.

Huggy shrugged. “The White Witch, she says can be harder, maybe injured, but those who have come back say–”

“Come back?” I nearly dropped the beer, stunned. People came back? My mind brought back the sensations I had felt coming through the stones the first time, and knew something similar would happen if–when–I tried again. Did those people prefer the lifestyle of an older, simpler time? Or maybe they were escaping the craziness of the modern world, leaving behind someone who had hurt them…or even coming back to someone they loved?

“Yes, some have come back,” Starsky agreed, head still bent over his work, apparently oblivious of the pained glance I sent him. “They don’t always say why. Some come and go–but they’re worse for it every time.”

“It ages them, it is true. It’s hard on the body,” Huggy agreed.

My stomach lurched slightly, as if threatening to remind me just how harrowing a trip it truly was.

“I just want a one-way ticket,” I announced, and while Starsky mightn’t have noticed my earlier glance, I clearly saw his flinch as he dropped his charcoal. And I felt badly for it.

*~*~*

Supper of sausages and potatoes went well with the keg, and the three of us soon were deep into our cups, laughing sometimes, near tears at others. I told them very little of my David Starsky back home, only his first name, and his memory too painful to share for long, what with his identical ancestor watching over me.  Huggy didn’t seem affected by my confession of a male lover, just nodded and listened to what small bits I shared.

Starsky told me his story, of how his dark and handsome father came from across Europe and fell in love with a Scottish lassie with eyes of blue, who defied her own father–a mean man, known for his anger and thievery–and left him and her sisters to marry this exotic man, only to die shortly after Starsky’s brother was born. Nicholas was long gone, though. Tales carried from far away say he found his mother’s family, disowned his father’s and was welcomed into the fold rife with corruption, crime, and greed.

“They don’t like me around here, with my dark hair and blue eyes,” Starsky admitted, pushing his fork around his empty plate. “Too different for them, and I look too much like my father. But if they want a portrait done, then I’m acceptable enough for them to talk to.” He shook his head, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “I often wish I could leave here, but where would I go?”

“And leave me here? You and I, we are all we have, my man.” Huggy placed one elegant black hand on Starsky’s arm.

Starsky smiled a lost little smile at his friend. “You could always come with me. Sell that beer. I’d do my art. We’d make it.”

The affection between the two men was palpable, and I felt slightly jealous and a little sad myself. They had each other. My partner, the closest friend I’d ever had, was not only miles away, but years. Centuries.

Starsky sat up straight. “But right now, let’s focus on Hutch here. Tell us more of what the White Witch told you.”

Huggy nodded. “While coming through during equinox is easy enough for those whom the stones call, all sides being equal, to go through the stones during solstice requires two things. First, a jewel. Doesn’t need to be much–a stone in a ring suffices. Wear it or carry it in your fist and don’t let go during the journey.”

I looked down at my bare hands. Now I knew why the sapphire had turned to soot. I would have to find another, somehow.

“I may have ye covered on that, Hutch,” Starsky murmured, reading my mind and meeting my worried eyes. “What else, Huggy?”

Huggy stood to walk behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Faith, my friend. I know what to do. Close your eyes.”

I obeyed. His voice grew soft, silky, and deep.

“Back home, you have someone waiting. A best friend, a family member, a lover. Someone who is looking for you, who needs you, who is worried for you.”

David’s face flooded my mind. Other faces crowded in–my parents, my captain, co-workers–but it was David’s that pinned me, that drew me in and held me close.

“David,” I whispered.

I felt my hands taken between another pair–Starsky’s, for Huggy still held my shoulders.

“When the time comes, we will hold you like this. You will think of your David and his love will pull you through just as ours will send you. The jewel will center you, keep you in one solid piece as you go, not pulled only halfway, equal on each side, for that may well kill you during solstice, but is best during equinox. Practice between now and then, my friend. Think of his face, his love. The stronger the connection, the better your chance of finding yourself back in your proper time.”

Maybe it was the beer, the food, and the late hour. Maybe it was the fact that I had been emotionally wrung out ever since I’d arrived on Starsky’s doorstep. Maybe it was the love and affection that filled the room, my heart, and my mind–for two men I barely knew yet were working so hard to see me home.

I couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down my face. What I didn’t share with Starsky was that I saw his tears, too.

*~*~*

After that night, time passed both quickly and slowly. I stood for Starsky as he painted me–the painting that I would see again in the future–my past. I learned how to wear the kilt and shirt, able to dress myself after a couple of days of practice, and I knew I had pleased Starsky when he gave me that wide, brilliant smile.

We continued to share his bed. On my loneliest nights, we shared our bodies, though he never tried to claim me first. It was always I who reached for him, and he always came into my arms, to chase the fear away, to affirm I was alive and whole and well.

I confessed my guilt to him one night. “I feel as though I’m being unfaithful.”

“Ye’re not marrit, are ye?” he asked, his Scotch burr heavier than usual in his drowsiness.

I snorted. “Of course not. It’s just that–if I like someone like that, I date only that person.”

“Are we courtin’?”

“Um…no?” It was a valid question. I shook my head, confused. “This is…living together.”

“Aye. Marrit folk do that, too. We’re not marrit, though.”

“No.” I chuckled. “It’s only being unfaithful if we’re married?”

“Maybe so. I don’t like to think I’m breaking up a marriage, ye know.”

I pushed my hair out of my face, uncut since my arrival weeks before, and it nearly reached my shoulders. “But David and I aren’t ‘married’–we can’t be. Men marry women.”

“But do ye love him?” His whisper sounded fearful and hopeful at once.

“Yes. And you’re so…” A thought struck me then, and I felt shocked to have not thought it before.

“I’m so what?” he asked, leaning up on one elbow to look down on me, his face shadowed by the darkness.

“You’re so able to drive me crazy with your circular yet logical thinking,” I said, tucking my suspicion away, and his smile flashed white in the dim light.

“I may be crazy myself, keeping you in my bed.”

“You may be right, but I’m grateful for it.”

“Do I distract you from thinking of him?”

“Sometimes. But his face never leaves my mind.” That quite truthful explanation would have to do, for now.

“Tell me how you met him.” As he asked, he pulled me closer, drawing the story from me. I relaxed and allowed myself to remember.

“Venice Beach. He was there, like many artists do, painting away. I noted that his work that day included my apartment building and we talked.”

“And?”

I laughed softly. “And then I brought him pizza, at his place.”

“Was that the night…?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t bring my voice above a whisper. My conscience nagged at me. How would I conceal from David the fact that I’d slept with another man during this time? How could I possibly explain to him that his ancestor was so like him that I couldn’t help but turn to him for comfort? Was I so disloyal, or overly loyal? The thoughts chased each other around my head, refusing to quiet.

Finally, long after Starsky had drifted off, I slept, my dreams full of two Starskys, pulling me apart.

*~*~*

“Where did you see my painting?” His question came just as I was about to drop off the cliff into sleep. It’d been a long day, with the rising wind interfering with Starsky’s work. We were a month away from Solstice and I was growing more anxious.

“I told you, didn’t I? Someone had it. They recognized that the person in it looked like me and thought I should see it.”

“Who?”

“What?”

Very patiently, he rolled over. “Who had it, Hutch?”

In the darkness, truth can be so easy. I sighed.

“David.”

“So, what you’re saying, is that somewhere down the road here, I’ll sire a child, who’ll sire others, who eventually will birth this David of yours.”

I nodded. “Guess so.”

He was quiet for so long, I thought he’d fallen asleep and just as I was on the verge of it myself, his voice pulled me back.

“What if–what if I went through–would the stones take me to you, do ye think?”

I raised up on one elbow. “I don’t know. But you–you belong here…don’t you?” My heart suddenly pounded. I thought I’d successfully shoved the notion of these two Starskys being the same person far enough away, but his innocent suggestion brought it roaring back.

My detective’s mind raced to keep up with Starsky’s own observations.

“I mean, well–tell me more about him. He’s an artist like me, right? He looks like me–exactly like me, Hutch?” Even in the darkness, I could sense him touching his face. “Left handed? Blue eyes, dark hair? What are the odds, Hutch?”

I swallowed hard. “Are you saying…that the man I met, painting, at the beach…with your name, your face–might actually be you?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

I let myself believe it for a minute. That I might go back home, back to Dave–to this very same Starsky.

“But,” I noted, turning away, “I didn’t already know you. If you came back with me now, how would I have met you before I came here?”

“I must land earlier.”

“How? We’re not even sure I can get back at all…how would you go through sooner, and find me?”

“I don’t know. But I want to try. I should try.”

I lay back, stunned. I had suspected, but dismissed, this possibility–that the man I was falling in love with back home was the very same man lying beside me in this bed — I only couldn’t know that before.

“Why, Starsky? Why do you want to come through?”

“Don’t you know? Can’t you tell?”

All I could think of was the pain. Mine, missing David; guilt over using Starsky in his own bed, pretending him to be my David while all the while Starsky was falling in love with me.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly. “I do. I’m sorry. I don’t know…”

“Let’s see if the White Witch has any answers,” Starsky softly suggested, resting our fists on my chest. “Huggy will check with her for us. See if someone from this time has ever gone through.”

“All right.” Inside I quaked. Starsky didn’t come any closer, just let me hold his hand and we both dropped off to sleep. My dreams were full of Dave, but the background changed: from this house, to his, from here, to Venice Beach. I felt tugged and pulled and separated from myself, and when I awoke, I did not feel rested in the least.

*~*~*

“She says she’s never known it happen,” Huggy announced, setting down another ever-present keg of ale, and a basket full of foodstuffs. Nearly every day he’d come down, to cook a meal and watch the painting in progress.

Starsky had moved to details and didn’t need my posing outside any further. He wrestled with mixing exactly the right shade of blue for my eyes, in between finishing up portraits for others who had already hired him. I kept his house for him, as he was not only working on theirs during the day, but mine in the evenings, every lamp blazing to give him as much light as possible.

We had talked about him coming through the stones and set Huggy on his quest. The White Witch wouldn’t speak with us, only Huggy. “She is…particular,” was the only explanation. I didn’t care, as long as her information was correct.

Starsky and I had talked little about his thought of coming through the stones with me, until Huggy brought this news while I was sitting at the table, letting Starsky examine my face for the painting.

Starsky put his paintbrush down. “Never known it to happen? Does that mean it cannot?”

Huggy looked at him a long while before answering. “She says she doesn’t see why not–however, it could as easily send you back in time rather than forward. But there are ways.”

“What ways?” Starsky asked, walking around to stand in front of Huggy. “What would I have to do?”

“Starsk…wait,” I started, suddenly very afraid.

He turned to me, and knelt, placing one hand against my face. “Are ye well? Ye look a fright.”

“I-I-I just can’t…I don’t want…” My voice shook alarmingly and I gratefully accepted the mug of beer Huggy handed me over Starsky’s shoulder. My hands trembled as I drank, the sharpness of it burning my nose.

“What is it you’re afraid of?” Starsky asked, wrapping his hands around mine where they clutched the mug, once I’d drained it.

“What if you try, and you don’t come into my time at all? I’ll go back and you won’t be there.”

“But I’ll have to be there.”

I stared at him. “How can you know that?”

He smiled patiently. “Because you have to see this painting,” he said, pointing at the work nearly done. “You wouldn’t see it unless I had it there to show you.”

His logic seemed right, but my fear didn’t abate until another beer found its way into my hand and subsequently into my stomach.

“The White Witch had many guidelines to share,” Huggy said, pouring a drink for Starsky and himself before sitting beside me at the table. “The jewels, for one.”

“Right, but I have none,” I reminded him. Starsky nudged me. “I have that covered.”

“With what?”

He rose and reached for a small ornate box stored high on a shelf near the fireplace. He brought the box  to the table, opening it.

Inside were a small collection of rings. “From my father’s family, I’m told,” he explained. “I’ve been hiding them, but now it seems the right time to bring them into the light.” He slipped out a ring and put it in my hand. “Here is a silver one I’ve always loved.”

My heart skipped and my breath left me. “I know that ring.”

Starsky’s eyes moved from me, to the ring and back again, without moving his head. “Dave’s?”

“Yes,” I breathed. I slipped it onto his pinkie finger, where her scrutinized it, and then made a fist.

“More proof–he is me.”

He rummaged through the box again, drawing out a ruby set in a woman’s silver ring, handing it to me. Huggy produced his own jewel, a diamond set in a cuff, clearly African.

“You, too?” I sat back. “Why?”

They glanced at each other. “We have nothing here, Hutch,” Starsky said. “We are outcasts–no friends, no family. People come to us for paintings and ale but don’t stay long, don’t wish to talk, or be very friendly. But where you come from,” he paused, smiling widely. “Where you come from, from what you have said, there are many opportunities for men such as ourselves.”

I nodded slowly, recalling my time with Dave. I said nothing, but I couldn’t remember meeting anyone who could be Huggy.

“When?” I asked. “When do you plan to go through?”

Starsky twisted the ring on his finger. “We’ve not really discussed it. Perhaps now would be best.”

Huggy poured them all more ale, then sat on the bench. “The White Witch says, you must think of someone in your time that you love. Their presence will guide you to them, land you in their lifetime.”

“In their lifetime? I don’t go back to when I left?”

“Well, logically, you’d go back and however long you were gone is how much time will have passed then, too. But it doesn’t always work that way.”

“So, we’d be lost in time.”

Huggy nodded. “Probably not much more lost than you are now, though.”

“Tell me of your life two years ago, Hutch. It will help to give me a time to think of, the Hutch of…then.”

Two years ago.

“I was breaking up with my partner.”

“Breaking up?” Starsky’s eyes were wide.

I smiled. “I mean, my partner on the police force. He and I were…chalk and cheese. Oil and water. I was the salt in his sugar bowl. We’d tried to work it out but he was too by-the-book for my tastes and we’d missed plenty of collars because of it. I wasn’t really breaking any rules with how I did things, but they weren’t exactly line-by-line readings of the regulations, either. Dobey –that’s my captain — he’d bluster and yell and wag his finger at us, and then wave us off to get back to work. That’s just his way, but it bothered Rick enough that he asked to be transferred to another precinct.”

“And your new partner?”

“I haven’t got one. Can’t find anyone I can work well with, so for now, I’m working alone.”

Starsky nodded and wrapped his hands around his mug. “Who would be your perfect partner? What would he be like?”

I knew Starsky was asking about more than just police work, and I looked directly at him as I spoke, with David on my mind.

“He’d be smart. Insightful. Willing to work as a team, not competing with me as his partner. I’d give him credit where credit was due, and he’d do the same for me. We’d finish each other’s thoughts, know just what the other was going to do in a sticky situation, and be my friend, outside of work as well as during it.” I licked my lips and dove in.

“He’d be David — he’d be there for me, and I would be there for him, for whatever we needed, whenever we needed it. Busted lip, broken heart, bad day and out of beer — even if we’re teasing and picking on each other, when it comes down to it, we’re there for each other.”

“You are lucky. To have two people love you so much.” Huggy’s voice was gentle.

Looking in Starsky’s eyes, I realized Huggy was right. But I never meant for Starsky to fall in love with me.

I bent my neck and stared at my hands.  My hair fell forward and I was grateful for its length, hiding my face. Even if Starsky really was my David in the future, right now, I felt like I was breaking Starsky’s heart.

“I don’t know for sure that you are David, Starsky. But I hope so. I hope so.”

I really hadn’t expected to care for him as much as I did, and a sense of betrayal began to steal through me.

His hand found my chin and raised my head. Dark blue eyes gazed into mine and in them I saw kindness, love, friendship, and hope.

“Don’t worry, Hutch. If I’m the same David — and I am believin’ as hard as I can that I am — then I’ll already know all this by the time I meet you in Bar City.”

“Bay City.” I took his hand and he smiled.

“Huggy, you best be getting home,” Starsky said, never looking away from me.

“That’s a fine thank you for my beer and food. I’ll put it on your tab,” Huggy groused, pretending to be offended as he gathered his things. “See if I come back tomorrow.”

“See ye tomorrow, Hug,” Starsky answered softly, and when the door closed behind Huggy, he led me to bed.

*~*~*

Solstice. Although it was now summer, the nights were still springlike in their chill. I wore my own clothes and carried my backpack, the ruby ring on a chain around my neck, for the circlet was too small for even my pinkie finger. I gripped it in one hand as I contemplated the stones.

They stood in dark shadow against the night sky, and I recalled how they’d looked from the ground the day they threw me here. Blotting out the stars, menacing in their silence.

We’d spent the last few weeks in deep twentieth century training. I left them detailed, extensive notes on money, how to use a phone, airlines, food, cars. If their attempt worked, and they landed here two hundred years into the future, they’d need to know.  We agreed on places to hide the painting, my leftover currency, both British and American, and made clothing decisions that would best make them look less out of place when they arrived. I taught Starsky how to make pizza, convincing them both that tomatoes were not poison apples, using goat cheese and sausage and a hot oven, and Huggy about hamburgers — soft rolls surrounding ground meat with cheese.

We’d done everything we could. Now all that was left was the attempt through the stones.

As we approached them, I could hear the buzzing. Apprehension solidified into fear and felt myself tremble, my body remembering the sensations.

Starsky put his hand on my arm. I knew I wanted to go home, home to David, who might well be Starsky, but at the same time, I felt guilty for leaving Starsky.

“Stop thinking so much,” he murmured. “I can hear ’em loud and clear. It’s gonna be all right, Hutch.”

I turned to him. I needed to see his face — Dave’s face. We’d said our goodbyes back at his house, reminiscent of my goodbyes to Dave three months earlier.

Huggy suddenly put out the lantern. “Folks is coming,” he said, and I could hear the celebrants making their way up the road, just as they would two hundred years into the future.

“Now, Hutch,” Starsky said. “Do it.”

I shifted my backpack onto my back, and wrapped my fist around the ring. The stone buzzed louder, growing to a roar. A wind kicked up, tossing my long hair into my face.

“Starsky?” I almost couldn’t see him, the roaring having turned to a shriek, the noise making me squint and feel almost disconnected.

“I’m here.” He took my other hand and I felt Huggy’s hands lay on my shoulders. Together they guided me toward the stones, as they’d promised.

“Think of Dave. Let him lead you home.” Huggy’s voice was warm and deep, and Starsky’s grip grew tighter. I felt his breath on my face.

“I’ll see ya. I swear.”

“Yeah.”  My voice quavered and I set my jaw. “See ya.” I fixed Dave’s face — Starsky’s face — in my mind and walked forward.

The stones swallowed me into a dark scream, where I tumbled and fell into a shrieking nothingness.

*~*~*

Mrs. McCleary’s blurry face hovered over mine as I awoke to an unclear world. Rubbing my eyes, I cautiously sat up and found myself being observed by several women, white gowns under their coats.

“Mr. Hutchinson! Land’s sake, where did you come from?”

“I…uh…well…” My thoughts were too muddled to make much sense of where — or when — I was. But I felt a sense of relief beneath my nausea, for at least she knew who I was. I was home — reasonably.

“We thought ye dead, child! You disappeared on us.”

“Mrs. McCleary,” I started, then coughed, my throat dry and sticky. Someone handed me a Thermos cup of coffee and I sipped it cautiously as I got my feet under me, leaning back against the stones.

The stones.

I felt around my neck for the ring. The chain was intact, but where the ruby had been set in the ring, the cup only held a burnt, greasy smear.

I looked up at Mrs. McCleary. “How long have I been gone, ma’am?”

“Nigh on three months. ‘Twas the turning of spring when ye’d left us.” She was patting my arms and legs, looking for injury.

“Three months? Just three months? It’s summer solstice now? Today?”

“Aye. Are ye sure ye’re all right, son?”

I nodded slowly. It had worked. I had come home.

Well, back to my time, at least.

HOME.

I couldn’t get there fast enough.

*~*~*

I fended off Mrs. McCleary’s probing questions, knowing I was frustrating her, but what could I say? “Oh, well, you see, there really is magic in those old words you say and the stone took me back in time two hundred years!”

She had kept all my belongings in my suitcase and stored it in her room in the hopes I’d return, and I was grateful for my familiar jeans and shirts. I spoke with the local constable, and my story became one of temporary amnesia, wandered far and finally back home again. He looked like he didn’t believe me, but I couldn’t exactly tell him the truth, either.

I knew Dobey had to be frantic. I was able to send a telegram to him for I knew a phone call would be too costly and he’d want to know too much.

But Dave — I would need to see him in person. I didn’t want a piece of paper to announce me — I wanted to see him, touch him, to tell him I loved him while standing before him.

My return ticket had long expired, and I had to purchase a new one, but I didn’t care about the cost.  A local bank helped me wire my own bank for enough funds and I booked the next rounds of flights back to Bay City.

Several times over the next day I had to remind myself to calm down. My legs ached from the tension as I caught myself pushing against the plane’s floor as if my doing so would make the plane fly faster. I entertained myself imagining if I could have directed the stones to deliver me right to my own doorstep. My circular thoughts always came back to mentally slapping myself and thanking the powers that caused my trip through the stones at all to deliver me back in one piece, to the right time at all. It all felt like a dream, though the evidence continued to present itself — my hair, the burnt stone in the ring, the time that had passed by.

Southern California’s heat caught me by surprise. Even New York hadn’t felt this warm, and I’d acclimated to the cooler temperatures of Scotland, living in a house with only a fire, wool, and Starsky’s body for warmth.

Sweating from the walk across the tarmac, I pulled my suitcase from the luggage carousel, determined to call a cab and get home to Dave’s place as quickly as I could.

Stepping out once again into the bright sunshine, I fumbled for my sunglasses and as the light eased, a familiar car pulled up in front of me at the curb.

“Lookin’ for a ride?”

I stared, stunned at his arrival. He hadn’t changed except his hair was very short. Somewhere in the back of my mind an explanation of “the academy” floated by. But his face, his eyes, the impudent grin — all Dave.

He casually got out of the Torino and opened the trunk.  After a few moments, he shook his head and took my suitcase from me, dumped it in and shut the trunk lid, then took me gently by the arm and guided me to the car.

I couldn’t stop staring at him. I had yet to say a word. Dave — Starsky — was here. He knew I’d be here.

Finally, my throat worked. “How…?”

“I knew when you left, Hutch. Hoped you’d made it back to the right year. Kept calling the airlines ’til they found your name and I knew you were on your way. Ah, Hutch.” He put his hand on my knee, solidifying his presence.

He’d called me ‘Hutch.’ I knew it then — he was Starsky. Not just Dave, but Starsky — Scotland’s Starsky, man who’d shared his body with me two hundred years and approximately three months ago. I drew in a gasping breath, shaking.

“Let’s get you home and tuck you in. I don’t think you’re ready for the big leagues yet,” he said, putting the car into gear and pulling into traffic.

I let him hold my hand as he drove, only letting go when necessary, and glanced over at me staring at him once in a while. He’d grin, then turn back to watch the road.

As we turned onto his street, I finally found my voice again.

“Starsk? It’s really you?”

“Aye. And you’re really you. Bloody gorgeous, ye are.” A brogue I hadn’t heard from this century’s Starsky sweetened the now-familiar phrase.

“Here we are. Out ye go.”

He’d brought me home to his place, and as I followed him up the steps joy welled up in me.

I was home.

Starsky opened the door and there stood the painting, waiting for me.

“We followed your instructions and got the painting shipped to New York. We flew over — I thought Hug was gonna piss his pants, being up in the air but for me — I was loving it, bein’ able to fly!”

“Huggy!” I’d nearly forgotten him. “He made it, too?”

“Huggy’s grand, and we’ll see him tomorrow. Got his own tavern and having a ball. He’s got more ladies around him than he’ll ever know what to do with. They all think he’s the coolest cat around.”

I laughed, picturing Huggy holding court in his caftan and cap, charming the ladies.

“When did you get here — what year, I mean?”

Starsky grabbed two beers from the fridge and popped the tops, handing one to me. It slid down my throat, cool and wet and I relaxed a bit. Starsky led me to the sofa where I flopped into a grateful heap.

“We got here about two years ago — just when you told us you were going solo. Thought of where you lived, what you were feeling, doin’…and it worked, took us just right. We stayed in New York for most of the first year, learnin’ the language.” He kicked off his shoes and removed mine, then settled in beside me, our shoulders touching.

“Stayed with a lady named Muriel. Jewish, like me. She’s like my mom now — I call her that, even. She let Huggy stay too and once we’d gotten things figured out, we headed out here. Got here about a year ago.  Helped Huggy get set up, and I drove a cab for a while, and scoped you out.”

“When did you find me?” All that time, he knew where I was, who I was, and I had no clue until I encountered him on the beach that fateful day.

“I was hanging out near the precinct and saw that blond mop of yours getting into the ugliest car I’ve seen in my life. Well, in the year of my life since I knew what a car was.” His grin grew wide and I mock socked him in the shoulder. “I followed ye home and watched you a few weeks, then set up my paints and waited for ye.”

“And I found you, only I didn’t even know I was looking for you.”

“You weren’t. Hey,” he said, his face softening. “Ain’t ye gonna ever kiss me hello?”

He tasted of beer and a chili dog, and he smelled of sandalwood and Starsky.

I stood and reached out my hand. He let me haul him up, and then I kissed him more thoroughly. Pressed against each other, hungry to touch, we tugged and pulled until we stood fully nude in his living room, my portrait gazing past us, back in time.

I led Starsky to his bed. Our bed, cradling us into our future.