At home, Yana liked to occasionally say out loud, “I am soooo lucky!” partially because it was true and partially because she liked to see her cat and dog perk up. They were incidentally both named Lucky. The cat came first. He was a large, short-haired tabby, completely black with white whiskers, looking miserable in a cage in the shelter. As Yana walked past the cage, he stuck out his paw and grabbed her shirt with one long claw, looking at her hopefully with sorrowful eyes. “This one just picked me,” she told Sasha. The previous owner named the cat “Lucky” and Yana thought it was fitting. A year later, a friend of a friend was getting rid of their barely two-year-old puppy, a black poodle mix, who despite having been touted as hypoallergenic by an unscrupulous breeder, caused all the children in that family to break out in hives and endless rivers of snot. The puppy was also, unoriginally, named Lucky. Yana and Sasha tried for months to rename one or both of the animals. Neither animal would respond to any other name. In the end, it didn’t really matter because when you called one, the other came running anyway, worried about missing out on a treat or a cuddle.

Yana wanted to go home, to her dog, to her cat, to Sasha, to her life where she was so lucky. Instead, she was halfway around the world, in a field, talking to a rock.

“Introduction Video!” Elohim announced in her head.

There was a distinct electrical whirr and the field manifested multiple human figures. Yana could tell right away they were not real people, at least they were not real now. She was sure that under a certain angle, it might be possible to see through them, even though she couldn’t quite find that angle. Yana could distinctly hear their voices, a mix of multiple languages she didn’t know, but instantly understood the meaning of their words, the intent behind them, and the emotions they experienced. Instinctively, she walked towards them to get a better look.

There were six of them, five men and one woman. Their clothing made no sense not just in relation to the hoodies and yoga pants of the modern age, but in relation to each other. They looked like Renaissance Fair cosplayers, the majority of whom hopelessly misunderstood the appropriate costume requirements. The two men in the middle certainly looked presentable. One, a tall thick-bodied man in an extravagant broadbrimmed hat, a figure-hugging dark embroidered coat, and a magnificently upturned mustache, was closely engaged in a conversation with the other, a noble-looking gentleman with long curly hair in knee-high breeches, tall boots, short flowing coat, and a feathered hat, holding a horsewhip.

After that, things got a bit muddled up. Slightly behind them, closely listening in to their conversation, was a hunched African tribal man, wearing a headdress of grass and flowers and a skirt of long grass and large leaves. His ancient face was streaked with a white chalky substance, and he was holding a sharpened stick. Out of everyone present, he had the least convincing, hastily made costume. It seemed that he collected prairie grass right in this field to create the headband and ripped fresh leaves recently of the surrounding trees. Yana fleetingly wondered if that was bird shit smeared on his dark brown face. To further ruin the illusion of an authentic tribal man, there was a discarded pile of clothes by his feet, black trousers, a plain waistcoat, worn-out boots, and a dirty white shirt. The old man, Yana noticed, was noticeably shivering.

On the other side of the chatting men, was another, albeit much better attempt at a native costume. A muscular tanned man with a wild mane of hair and black ornamental tattoos covering his arms, chest, and half of his face was wearing nothing but a red loin cloth and a black shawl tied on one shoulder. He was sporting a beaded leis necklace made out of nuts and shells, which was the only clue to his origin, as far as Yana was concerned. She had one much like it, made out of plastic, from her two-week trip to Hawaii some ten years ago. He seemed mostly unaffected by the weather, ignoring the chilly wind blowing through his shawl. His face was set in a stony determination, his body rigid and tense, and only the intensity of his eyes gave away the simmering fury bubbling just below the surface.

He is a bit mad, Yana thought, he has lost his sense of home.

Further off into the distance, pacing back and forth through the high grass was a kilted Scottish soldier. He was wearing a traditional plaid kilt, a wool jacket, and rawhide boots, all covered in dust and mud. He had a sword attached to his waist and a flintlock pistol hidden in his sporran. Yana knew this for an absolute fact. She also knew that a minute ago she had no idea what a flintlock pistol or a sporran was. She could also feel, from the distance, his anxiety. He didn’t like being here, in an exposed field, surrounded by trees where an enemy could easily hide. His intense gaze searched through the line of trees, his hand clutching the handle of the sheathed sword, preparing for an ambush. Occasionally he glanced at the woman, standing by the nobleman. He didn’t know who she was, but she was a woman alone, and thus under his protection. No harm would come to her here as long as he breathed.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

And finally, the woman. Yana barely even noticed her at first so small, fragile, and unimposing she was. Diminutive in stature, wearing a long, loose-fitting blouse and a plain skirt, covered with a white apron, and a red headscarf on her head, she looked as if she just stepped off the stage of the “Fiddler on the Roof” production. She had her eyes tightly closed, her trembling hands clutched to her chest, urgently whispering a prayer.

“Ufros aleinu sukkat shlomecha…” she gasped through trembling sobs.

Yana has never heard of this particular Hebrew prayer, but instinctively knew this woman was pleading for protection. She could feel her paralyzing fear at the company of these strange men, at being here alone and unprotected.

“Do not abandon me here, Elohim.” The woman whispered, “Shield and shelter me…”

Something broke inside her, shuddered through her body and she weakly cried out, “My husband! He would be looking for me!”

The rest of the men turned towards her. From all the summers she spent with her grandparents in the village of Korop, only 20 kilometers from where she stood now, Yana remembered only “kush meyn tokhes” in Yiddish but understood every word this woman said. Yana had briefly wondered if the same technology made it possible for them to understand each other. But it seemed that the men had no idea what she said.

Yana’s stomach tied into a knot. Sasha would also be looking for her. He would find the rice and the marinated salmon, the chopping board on the kitchen island, but no her and no cucumber. He would check if her car keys were in the key bowl and her car in the parking lot. He would call her and find her phone on the couch. Maybe he would put the leash on their dog and walk around the neighborhood, looking for her, growing more scared and frustrated by the minute. He would call their friends, her sister, and eventually the police. Oh, how she wished he knew that she was safe! Yana pushed these thoughts out of her mind and just in case, pinched her thumb and index finger together.

“Well, we might as well get started!” called out the large extravagant man in a broad-brimmed hat, who Yana suddenly knew to be an English Viscount, “Come, gather round!” He had an easygoing attitude of a man who was convinced that everybody everywhere understood his language. The other nobleman did and so did the Scot, but she wasn’t sure of the others.

The Scottish soldier, the African, and the woman eventually moved in close. The Hawaiian man did not. He stood rigidly on his spot and now Yana could see that he was clutching something tightly in his fist. After a bit of fuss and a few rolled eyes from the nobles, the group shuffled sideways until all six of them stood in a tight circle.

The Hawaiian extended his hand with the clutched fist toward the woman, and she flinched back. He held his other hand out, palm outstretched, to show her he meant no harm and slowly opened his fist. There was a small jet-black stone on his palm, vibrating and humming gently.

Yana could feel a change come over the woman. Her fright was gone in an instant and a strange sense of calmness and completeness settled over her. This is why she was here. This was her purpose.

The Scottish soldier reached into his sporran and pulled out another small rock. It was exactly the same size and shape, the same all-engulfing black that seemed to pull all air and light toward it. As soon as he extended it towards the woman, his rock began vibrating and humming as well.

The second noble with the feathered hat produced the same stone from his breeches pockets with the same effect and murmured something excitedly to himself in Norwegian. Yana felt at this moment how excited he was for this adventure, how pleased he was to have traveled here, and how much he was looking forward to telling the tales of his journey to everyone at home. He had always felt stifled by his life of luxury of upper nobility in his hometown of Christiania and ever since boyhood dreamed of the Viking adventures of his ancestors.

The Viscount was just as cheerful.

“Well, isn’t this disappointing!” he laughed merrily, “And here I thought I was the only one in the world with something this special!”

With a theatrical gesture, he displayed an identical stone in his palm, moving the stone around the circle to allow everyone to get a better look. Within a few seconds, concerned murmurs arose among the group. His stone was motionless and silent, and in fact, it seemed to slowly fade from black to dark grey.

“Well, what is wrong with this thing!” exclaimed the Viscount, “It didn’t… It wasn’t like this before…”

Suddenly, the African stepped closer to the Viscount and grasped his forearm, his eyes searching his master’s face with silent pleading. Yana could feel how much bravery and desperation this act took, the threat of hunger, the agony of a hot whip on his back, the dread of punishment.

He is a slave, Yana realized, he is a slave who wanted to dress in the traditional tribal outfit of his homeland, as he believed something sacred and religious was going to happen here. Yana felt a deep pang of shame for having judged his costume earlier.

“Well…” The Viscount furrowed his brow, “I bought this stone when I bought Buck over here. He wouldn’t part with it as it belonged to his ancestors, so maybe…”

The Viscount extended the stone and Buck dropped on his knees to receive it. No, something screamed inside Yana, not Buck, his name is not Buck, don’t call him that.

The African clutched the stone to his face, kissing it and whispering urgent prayers. Slowly, with both hands, he extended it toward the middle of the circle. The stone, now jet-black, began to quiver and hum.

The woman, her eyes closed, extended her hand over the four stones, and began to pray.