I realized, as some kind of energy field flashed around me and then faded, that the supernatural existed! That time travel was real! For I had been transported to Holy Island in Northumbria, right in front of the gate to Lindisfarne Monastery. A place I had been before, during a Cook's tour of Great Britain. As a voracious reader of British history, it had always been my soul-consuming fantasy to go back in time and thwart the first ever Viking attack upon English soil. Was this my opportunity? It was obvious I was in a much earlier era because the air smelled amazing! And there was nothing of twenty-first century civilization around me. Only nature and the monastery. How did this happen? I could only conclude that if one wishes something strongly enough, if one is truly possessed for decades by a desire, it will come to be.

A spindly fellow carrying a bundle of firewood gave me a terrified look as I entered the gate. My six years of secondary school Latin came into play. I told him my name was Christopher, and could I speak with the abbot? He understood me and hastened toward a set of wooden doors. The abbot came out and looked as equally shaken as the other fellow.

"I'm Abbot Wingfield. Where are you from? No one anywhere in Christendom dresses as you do!" the Abbot insisted.

"I am a tailor. These are clothes of my own design." I knew I would have trouble explaining the technology of my cargo pants' pockets and zippers, so I had to make something up.

"Why are you here, Christopher? You've come a long way all alone, wherever you're from."

"Before I tell you, I need to know today's date." The abbot now went from frightened to annoyed.

"It's June the 5th, 793 in the year of our Lord." I knew it. One day before that infamous assault. I had twenty-four hours to change history.

"Abbot Wingfield, I saw two pirate ships on my way here. The situation is grave. We have little time. You must let me help you."

"Ships, here? Impossible. No ship can reach these shores. And no Christian man, pirate or otherwise, would dare attack God's holy sanctuary."

"These men are not Christians. They are heathens, with ships capable of skimming your shallow waterways. They will kill all of you and take everything of value. They will burn your monastery, and all the precious manuscripts therein." The abbot was nonplussed. Nonetheless, he tried to be rational.

"What would you have me do? Two ships, that's forty pirates. We are doomed. All we can do is pray."

"I need three things: saltpeter, charcoal and sulfur. Do you have them?"

"Yes, in goodly supply."

"Also many small clay pots, some flaxen cord, and glue, such as you might use to bind a book."

"Yes, yes, we have those as well. But how can they possibly help?"

"Procure the materials, and I will show you." I made crude grenades. I worked all day and constructed nearly twenty of them. I demonstrated one to the abbot by obliterating the scarecrow in his cornfield. He thought I might be a devil and made me kiss a Bible to prove otherwise. I put my lips solemnly upon the leather cover, and he was satisfied.

"A tailor, a warrior, a Christian. Truly, God has sent thee," said Abbot Wingfield.

The next day, the Vikings came early. I was ready atop the gate. When they neared, I threw grenade after grenade. Their shield wall was futile. It was the slaughter I always dreamed of. They had no idea what was killing them so fast. I didn't let up until the remaining few finally ran. They could sail back to Norway or Denmark or wherever the hell they hailed from and never come back. The Vikings were the Nazis of the Dark Ages as far as I was concerned, and my great dream was now reality.

Or was it?