Category: First Triad

Word Count: 6,287

It was impossible for me to say how long I lay there adrift in the warm crystal-clear tropical waters of the Caribbean Sea. My lips cracked and bled, parched from the harsh sun and the salt lightly coating them, and my dried tongue swelled in my mouth like a malign puffer fish making it very difficult to breathe. As my virtually limp body dangled half-way off the piece of ship wreckage, I could feel the wrinkles in my feet as my high leather boots filled with the briny sea water. The splintered wreckage currently preserving my life dug into my water softened skin, and the briny water inflicted an insurmountable amount of pain. 

Surrounded by a light gray fog, my obscured vision extended not more than a couple of hundred feet in any direction. Surrounding me adrift, I saw the remnants of the large ship upon which I was recently a passenger. I saw no other survivors, and with my parched throat and bloated tongue, I found it impossible to call out. 

This was one of God’s magnificent jokes. Thirsting to death, I drifted in a sea of undrinkable, virtually poisonous water. If I were to drink the briny sea water, it would only hasten my pending demise. 

The course of the ship on which I was a passenger traveled along a heavily used merchant trading route, so I could only have faith another passing ship found me before the lapping waves washed me to the next life. Other sea vessels would have a greater chance of finding me if the rest of this thick heavy fog burned away, but that would leave me fully exposed to the unforgiving sunlight. 

This was God’s second greatest joke. He gave us a lifegiving sun we cannot live without, but then the same sun that gave life could burn a man to a blistering death. If I were not such a coward, I would let myself slip into the water to drown to spare myself such a gruesome fate. 

Call it courage or fear. Whatever it was, I intended to hold onto this life for as long as I could. Small waves slapped  gently, brushing my legs and the piece of broken wreckage currently preserving my life. The gentle sound of the smacking water made me even thirstier. I scanned the ocean around me hoping I might find a water keg still intact. I would take a bottle of rum if I could find it. Unfortunately, I found nothing drinkable anywhere near by. 

It seemed impossible for me to recall how long I was adrift, and I knew I would soon die of thirst. The salt soaking into my body through my skin only worked to accelerate the dehydration process reducing my remaining time in half. 

I felt something rubbing against my numbing legs. Streinously I rolled over and propped myself into a semi-seated position to try to get a look at what it was. I spotted something gently bobbing up and down in the water, but could not discern what it might be. Using my booted foot to turn over whatever it was, the pale-green, bloated corpse of another passenger rolled onto its back. I probably would have screamed with fear and disgust if my throat was not painfully dry. I tried to kick it away with my foot, but instead the belly ruptured from the gas buildup releasing the most foul of odors. The corpse appeared to be in the water for days. It could not be from the ship I was on, for it sank only the previous evening. 

The stench did not last long. With the putrid air escaping from its stomach, the body quickly sank into the depths of the sea. I did not see any other bodies floating in the water, but then again I did not notice this one until it brushed against my leg. With all of the wreckage floating about, it was virtually impossible to discern what anything was. I could easily be surrounded by the corpses of other passengers and not even know it. I wondered if I was the only survivor. 

My parched, cracked lips stung from the briny sea air, which dried my eyes until my vision blurred. If rescue did not come very soon, I knew death was a certainty. It became difficult to open my eyes; tear production in them stopped. I found myself envying the dead, the bloated corpses floating atop the water and concealed by the fog. At least they were spared the torturous, agonizing death I had the luxury of experiencing. 

I thought I lost it, that my mind was quickly fading when I heard splashing in the water. I knew my delusional mind; my desperate desire to be rescued created the hallucination of the sounds of oars in the water. The insanity brought on by dehydration tried to soothe my frightened soul. 

As everything faded to black, I heard a faint voice call out, “I have another one over here.” 

I thought it was the voice of an angel, here to take me to heaven. I awoke an unknown time later in the crew cabin of a squeaky wooden ship. I hung in a hammock between two posts swaying side to side, and was dressed in ragged but dry clothes. A pretty dark haired lass sat next to me slowly feeding fresh water into my mouth. I felt the world spinning and was unconscious once again. 

Unaware of it most of the time, the caring girl poured water, drop by drop, into my mouth. She coated my dry cracked lips with lard so they could start healing. I did not know how long it took, but the enchanting young girl slowly nursed me back to health. 

I awoke at one point and straining but weakly asked, “Others, were there others?” 

“Shh,” the young girl whispered softly. “You worry about you right now.” 

“My lips,” I said. “I-I can talk.” 

“Yes,” she said caringly, “but you must save your energy for healing” 

The dark haired young girl held a small bowl to my lips and told me to take a sip. It was an herbal tea, which tasted quite dreadful, but it made my irritated throat feel much better. The brew must have a sedating effect, because I was asleep again within minutes. 

The next time I awoke it was dark. I hung there gently swaying in the hammock and found my nurse was not with me. I did not hear her or anyone else aboard the ship. In the tight crew quarters, I should hear people snoring and breathing in their sleep. I should be able to hear the ship rats squeaking and scurrying in the corners. The only sounds I heard were the splashing of the water against the wooden hull and the creaking of the old planks as the ship rocked gently from side to side. 

I tried to climb out of my hammock, but I still did not possess the strength to lift myself. Relaxing back into my swing bed, I listened to the sounds around me. I heard the pots and pans from the galley clanking and ringing against one another. The wind blew across the opening at the top of the ladder producing a hauntingly deep, pipe-like sound. 

The thing that disturbed me, that filled me with fear, was I heard no other people. I remained conscious for several hours, but never once heard the crier announcing the hourglass. I wanted to drift back into a slumber. I was very tired, but this deep terror prevented me from attaining slumber. I figured it was just before dawn when I finally drifted off to sleep. 

The next time I awoke, I felt like I slept for several days. My nurse was again at my side, and I heard the captain shouting orders to the crew above. Hearing the flapping of the sails in the wind, I thought that strange silent night to be nothing more than a dream, that was if it were not for the incredible pain in my right leg. 

I tried to lean myself up. I wanted to get a look at my leg. My dark haired nurse read my motions and gently pressed me back down into my bed. 

“Your leg is badly broken,” she said compassionately. “The medicinal tea I gave you numbed the pain, but I can’t keep you in such a deep slumber forever.” 

I wished she would sedate me for a few more days, but then I realized I had not eaten since my rescuers brought me aboard. My nurse fed me droplets of water and tea as I slept, but without my being conscious, she could not feed me any solids. 

My head throbbed from hunger, thirst, fear and the combination of the rest of the ordeal. Several men elsewhere in the crew quarters joked and laughed loudly. They must have done something to earn a day off, and they really seemed to be enjoying it. By the sound of it, there were eight or ten of them. Their slurred speech and clanking of bottles told me they were inebriated on rum. 

I wished they would stop with the excessive noise, but I could not blame them. Leisure time on a ship such as this was indeed not a gift given frivolously. I thought of asking them for a swig of their drink, but with my growling stomach, I knew it would do no more than cause me to vomit. Best I wait until I filled my stomach before I wrapped my healing lips around a rum bottle. 

The precious girl returned soon. Seeing the agony the noisy men caused me, she snapped at them to shut up and get out of the crew quarters. The men grumbled and murmured a few swears under their breath but did not disobey her. 

I found it rather strange the sailors did not blatantly insult her or give her any kind of grief. I thought perhaps she was the daughter of the captain or a high paying passenger. Either way, I did not care. I was glad to have those drunken sailors out of the immediate vicinity. Until I got some food in me to help ease the pain in my skull, I preferred those drunken celebrators out of earshot. 

“Don’t mind them,” she said. “They didn’t mean any harm; they don’t get all too much time for such foolishness.” 

A delicious smoky, fishy aroma drifted from the girl’s direction and brought an appetite to my belly. 

“I brought you some soup,” the beautiful girl said politely. “I’m afraid cook didn’t have much to put in it.” 

I leaned my head forward as she lifted a spoon from the bowl to my mouth. The fish soup was not half bad. It was rather salty, but salting was the only way to preserve meats. Only so much brine could be cooked back out of it. 

“Thank you,” I said to the girl. “Thank you for being so kind.” 

Gently shaking her head, my brown-eyed nurse replied, “You don’t have to thank me. I am glad I can help you.” 

I slurped down the spoonful of soup quickly. My care taker told me I must slow down, least I get a stomach ache. I knew she was right, but my hunger would not let me think like that. Because I would not stop slurping down the large spoonfuls of liquid, the young lady fed me smaller servings. 

As I finished the meager meal, my nurse said, “We will have some fresh fruit tomorrow.” 

“H-how’s that?” 

“We’re stopping near a lush tropical island tomorrow,” she explained. “The captain will send a few boats ashore to gather some fresh food and water.” 

I wondered to what island she referred. The ship on which I was originally a passenger headed from the island of Haiti, and we were heading toward the Southern Americas. I was not aware of any islands on that route until we reached the continental rim. We were not headed east. I watched the yellow sun rise, the same sun that almost took my life, on the port side of the ship and set on the starboard side. That meant we must be sailing south, but where I did not know. 

I was about to ask the girl on what island were we stopping. As if anticipating my question, she excused herself and climbed the stairs to the deck of the ship. It almost felt as if she was trying to avoid my interrogations. 

I hung there in that hammock, with my leg set in a splint consisting of two small planks and a mass of rope. My head felt at bit better an hour or so after my meal of pickled herring soup. I attempted to sit, but sparks filled my eyes and my head throbbed like an African drum. I nearly blacked out and fell back into my hanging bed. Obviously, I was not as well as I felt a few minutes ago. 

My heartbeat pounded in my ears and the throbbing in my skull nearly made me lose the small amount of food I did manage to eat. Perhaps I would feel better tomorrow after I got some fresh fruit inside of me. I hoped they would find some segmented fruits. Depending on how much time we spent at sea, it might not be long before scurvy set in. 

I could not say for how long I hung there gently swinging in my hammock. For hours, I listened to orders shouted out, instructions given, and the sound of countless feet thrumming against the deck above. Eventually, I saw the sun shining through the starboard porthole. I knew it would be dark soon. 

My caring nurse came back into the crew quarters. I knew it was her because of her soft footsteps and the aroma of fishy soup. The first meal she fed me today did little to satiate my hunger. I could not wait to eat again. 

As she slowly fed me one spoonful after another, I considered asking her about the strange silence during the previous night. I changed my mind after seeing the stern look on her face. I was used to seeing her with a friendly face, but something about her countenance made me afraid to ask her anything. It was probably no more than a dream anyway, so I decided it was not worth mentioning. 

I was about half of the way finished with my soup when she finally spoke. 

“Are you okay sir?” she asked kindly. “You’ve been awful quiet.” 

“Yes,” I replied. “I just have a lot on my mind.” 

I sipped down a couple of more spoons full of soup and mustered up the nerve to ask her a question on my mind since I first became conscious aboard the ship. 

“Were there any other survivors, or was I the only one?” 

A long uncomfortable pause followed my interrogative. I did not find this to be a good sign. Either she was afraid to tell me or she was trying to quickly concoct a lie. 

“There were others,” she explained. “We brought seven aboard, including you. When the lifeboats found you, you were an inch away from oblivion’s door.” 

She still avoided giving me the answers for which I probed. I heard no one else in the dank crew quarters. If she did help nurse others back to health, I never heard them. As far as I knew, I was the only one in such bad shape. During the day I saw no one else down here. The one night I was awake, I did not hear anyone above deck either. Something strange was happening, but I could not say what. 

I should be able to get around soon enough. After my body recuperated from the whole ordeal, I should be able to find something to use as a crutch. I needed to get over my continued lack of food and water to allow my body to muster up some strength. 

The young nurse gave me another small bowl of the herbal tea after I finished my soup. I fell asleep shortly before dark and did not rise until the next morning. I heard the cranking of pullies and the creaking of rope. The rattling of tack and harnesses squealed as someone lowered several dinghies down onto the slapping water. 

The men must not have been to shore for quite some time. I heard them yelling out “yahoo,” “yippee,” and saying farewell to the other crew members. It almost sounded like they were never coming back. I thought the nurse may have lied, and this was more than a tropical island. If these men were indeed staying behind, there must be a port of some kind here. Unfortunately, I still could not stand, thus I could not look out of the porthole. 

We stayed anchored in place until midday of the following day. I heard the man in the crow’s nest announcing the smaller boats were returning from land. Twenty minutes later, I heard the lowering of the cargo planks. That must be for the fresh water and food the men brought from the island. 

After the supplies were all loaded onto the deck, I heard the splash of hooks at the end of heavy empty rope. Thirty seconds passed and someone shouted angrily. The voice demanded the men in the boats to attach the hooks. I heard grumbling and whining as some of the other crew members lifted the boats back to deck level. 

These were not the same happy voices I heard as the boats left for shore. These men sounded beaten and broken as if they lost all hope. I did not understand this odd reaction. So far, I found the ship quite comforting with the exception of the hauntingly silent nights and the strange return of the sailors who went to the land then returned. 

The men no sooner set foot on the deck before they were put to work scrubbing the deck and such. The captain did not waste any time. If these were indeed new crew members as I thought, he gave them no time to acclimate. 

An hour passed and my nurse returned to my side. She brought with her a fresh banana and a segmented orange fruit. If she handed me the food, I knew I would scarf it down. She probably realized this because she only gave me small pieces of fruit at a time. Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, my nurse spoke to me as she fed me the fruit and water. 

She did not speak of anything of much importance. Truth be told, I think she stuck with the small talk so as to avoid any serious subject matter. Despite her meaningless words, I had many questions of my own. 

“You told me they found other survivors from my ship,” I reminded her. “Where are they?” 

She took in a deep breath and let out a long sigh. I knew she did not want to tell me. The question was, why did she not want to tell me? What was it she was trying to hide? 

“Some of them the captain sent to shore,” she replied. 

I waited for her to continue, but she did not. If I was going to get anything out of her, I would have to be blunt. 

“Why were they sent to the island?” I asked, “The men who returned, were they the same men who went to shore?” 

Again she let out a deep sigh followed by a long awkward pause. 

“Those in the proper condition were left ashore,” she reluctantly replied. “They were dropped off on a veritable paradise.” 

“But will anyone find them?” I asked. “We can’t leave them marooned.” 

“Trust me,” she said. “In an Eden such as that, they will never want to leave.” 

Before I could ask her who the men were that returned in the boats, she excused herself and went back up to the deck. 

Her words meant nothing to me. They made no sense. I traveled these trade routes for years, and I never heard of any such island. How could a tropical island be a paradise? Hardships always existed, and insects spread disease. Shelter is hard to construct. Food can become scarce with the wrong weather. As far as I could discern, we went off and left the unfortunate men stranded. 

Later, the young dark-haired girl returned with a bowl of the tea. She allowed me to drink it rather quickly. As soon as it was gone, she left without saying a word. The pain in my leg faded slowly and I drifted off to sleep . 

Another week passed and infection set in my broken leg. My brown-eyed caretaker tried a variety of ointments and herbal poltus. She slowed the infection, but it began to progress its way up my leg. The young woman brought me the sedating tea three times a day. If she did not, I probably would have died from the pain. 

The next time I awoke, I felt like I slept for weeks. I sat upward in my hammock to look at the condition of my leg. I almost fainted. I almost vomited. When I looked down, my right leg was no longer there. The infection grew too great, and my leg was amputated as I slept. 

The pain was minimal, and I realized I must have been out for quite some time. My leg, severed at the knee, was healing nicely. If I was unconscious long enough for my leg to heal this far, how did I eat during that time? 

My nurse could spoon feed me water and possibly broth, but I would not have healed so quickly on such a meager diet. This only stood to raise more questions. 

I waited until dusk, expecting my nurse to come down at any time. She never came. All day long, I listened to the sounds of the sailors above. 

When nightfall came, everything fell silent. The only sounds were the creaking of the wooden ship. The first time I witnessed this strange event, I thought I must be dreaming. Now I knew better. It was as if all of the sailors vanished as soon as the sun set. This time I was absolutely sure I was not dreaming, and it terrified me beyond measure. I could not conceive of one logical explanation for the abrupt silencing of all those above deck. 

I did not sleep for the entire night. 

Something unholy lingered about this ship. What it was, I did not know. I only knew it was present. When the sun rose again in the morning, all of the sounds of the hardworking men resumed. Their words, their movements above deck resumed exactly where they left off last night. 

Only a few hours after dawn, I felt the ship slow nearly to a stop. The loud clanking of chains came from above as the crew lowered the anchor. I prayed it was my time to get off this ship. I hoped we stopped at a major port with a proper hospital. The anchor hit bottom and the boat softly jerked to a stop. 

It was not until then I realized it was raining outside. No wind seemed to blow against the ship, but I could hear it whistling across the deck. I could feel the air growing colder and knew a storm must be pushing its way in. Perhaps that was why the ship was at anchor. The captain may have anticipated strong weather and decided to ride it out anchored rather than while sailing. 

Then I heard the splash of two rowboats as they hit the water. The captain must be a fool to send his men to shore in rowboats with a strong storm approaching. We could not be that needy for supplies. 

I thought initially it was only days since our last stop, but then I realized it had to be much longer. I spent a lot of time unconscious, enough time for my leg to heal to the point the pain was nearly gone. Perhaps we were in more of a need for supplies than I realized. 

I waited for my nurse to return to my side, and the hours passed by slowly. Eventually I heard someone above announce the return of the rowboats. The deck hand only announced the return of one boat, but I was sure I heard two hit the water to head for land. The boat seemed to be returning awful early. I did not see how they could have gathered sufficient resources in such a short time. The clanking of the chains told me when the rowboat was being lifted back to deck level. 

I heard the men on the small boat moaning and wailing. It reminded me of the cries coming from a battlefield after the fighting concluded. It was the cries of those defeated, left with no hope, and abandoned to die. The tormented sounds nearly made me sick. I could not fathom what could happen in such a short time to make these men cry like this. 

There was a thud and a man screamed out in pain. When the pattern repeated, I realized the men were being drug forcibly from the dinghy to fall hard onto the deck. If these men were ill, they should not be brought back on board. They could bring diseases onto the ship that would rapidly spread in these close quarters. 

I thought about the second boat. I had no doubt I heard two of them splash into the sea, but only one dinghy returned. Could it be they were attacked when reaching shore? That would explain both the missing rowboat and the wails of the men returning. 

At this point, I had no idea where in the Americas we were. The sun continued to rise on the port side of the ship indicating we still headed south. It could be very possible the ship worked its way up and down the coast. Without knowing our location, I did not know what kind of natives these men dealt with. They could be coming back injured, poisoned, diseased, or a combination of two or more. If they were sick, the captain was a fool to ever let them back on board. To protect the other passengers and crew, the captain should have left them behind to die so as to save the others. 

My nurse did not return to my side until several hours following the return of the rowboat. When she did come down to the crew quarters, she did not say much. For some reason, she acted very cold and distant. The child did not show the compassion and caring in her eyes she did thus far. She was nothing but considerate and caring to me until now. 

The lass gave me a bowl of stew and a large red apple. She left as abruptly as she arrived, not saying a word the entire time. I assumed she had patients above who needed attending more than me. If that was the case though, why were none of the injured brought down here with me? I was sure I would have time to ask her later. 

I ate the stew, but I hesitated when I thought of eating the apple. If this was just brought on board, I did not want to eat it. Since the boat was not gone long enough for the men to gather any fruit, I eventually broke down and consumed the juicy red apple. It was not as good as a segmented fruit, but it would help stave off the scurvy. 

I placed the apple core in the bowl and gently dropped it beside my hanging bed. I found my eyes burning and realized I was awake for more than a full day. Pulling the blanket over my cold body, I quickly went to sleep. At least asleep I was spared the ghostly silence of the night. 

We must have sailed very far to the south because the air grew colder with each passing day. For the next week, I only saw my nurse when she brought me my meal for the day. The young dark-haired girl brought me a cup of her herbal tea, which always helped me sleep through the night. 

One day I decided not to drink the tea so that I could remain awake. 

She must have had other patients located somewhere on this ship. I never got a chance to ask her about the crying men, the continuous rain, or the increasingly colder temperature. I wondered if I did something to anger the young woman. Perhaps I said something in my sleep that greatly offended her. 

When darkness fell, the sounds on the deck silenced as usual. I heard the creaking of the ship and the clanging of the metallic pots in the galley, but this time I could also hear the other men wailing like their souls were being torn asunder. Terror like no other overwhelmed me. I wanted to drink the tea so I would sleep and forget about the pain in my leg. On the other hand, I was afraid of what could be happening to me as I slept. 

I awoke in the morning to find the burning in my eyes grew worse. I knew I caught something the men on this last dinghy brought aboard. My left eye stung, but my right eye burned with a searing pain. My right ear ached as if someone punched me hard in the side of the head. The cold only made the irritation intensify. 

I still used the blanket given to me after my rescue. It was very dirty and did very little to shield me from the piercing cold. I looked around trying to locate something more I could use for insulation. The only thing I saw that might contain blankets was a closet at the front of the crew cabin. My nurse never stayed long enough for me to ask her much of anything. If I was going to find more blanketing, I would have to get it myself. 

I rolled out of the hammock and onto the floor. I was instantly reminded of the pain in my amputated leg when I hit the creaky wooden surface.  

Pulling my way toward the closet was easier than what I originally thought. I giggled with joy when I found the closet unlocked and a stack of blankets inside. I wedged myself into the corner and covered myself with all of the wool blankets. As my body warmed, I drifted off to sleep. 

I slept through the night and woke when the ship jolted to a halt. We did not hit anything or water would be flowing in through the hull. That must mean the captain once again dropped anchor. I heard very little commotion above, nowhere as much as when compared to the day I was brought aboard. It seemed to me we did not slow much before the crew dropped the anchor causing the ship to jerk hard. 

My right eye completely swelled shut. Try as I might, I could not open it. I felt it with my hand and felt a scar running from the bridge of my nose to the severed tip of my right ear. The scar was not new. I felt no scabs, only deformed flesh. Terror filled me as I felt the old wound on my face. 

Only yesterday I had the use of both eyes. How could it be that my right eye would now be nothing more than a horribly disfiguring scar? Panic set in and I threw the blankets off my body. Strapped to my missing right leg was a long wooden peg, mahogany by the looks of it. Chills filled me, not from the stabbing cold, but from the truth I was coming to realize. 

Forcing myself to a stand, I walked on the wooden leg with great proficiency. This was not the first time I walked on my peg leg. The prosthetic thumped against the floor as I made my way to the stairs. Standing at the top was my nurse. Her forearm was slashed from elbow to wrist, and a musket wound pierced her chest. Suddenly I remembered why she looked so familiar. 

She was a passenger on a Spanish galleon headed from the Americas bound for Europe. In addition to transporting passengers, the ship carried a vast wealth of gold and jewels. I was the captain of a ship of buccaneers who pirated the transport. 

The girl hid in a closet when my men and I boarded the Spanish galleon. The crew of the vessel fought back courageously, but they were no match for my seasoned men. I led a group below deck to seize and secure the precious treasures. I fired two of my muskets as we took the deck of the ship before dropping them on the deck. My last musket I carried in one hand as I held my saber in the other. 

An elderly man surprised me when he jumped from around a corner with a dagger in hand. He slashed at my musket arm with the sharp blade and, as I jerked back, the musket went off. The man dropped to his knees and cried out. After slashing his throat, I went to the closet to see what he thought so precious he was willing to give up his own meaningless life. I opened the door and there was the dark-haired, brown-eyed girl. Blood pulsed from a hole in her chest. 

When the foolish old man caused me to misfire, the pistol fired into the closet instead of putting a whole in his chest. The old man hid her because he knew what my men and I would do with her. I clearly remembered the look on the girl’s face as she fell forward. I tried to catch her and her forearm slid down the length of my blade. Without a second thought, I threw her lifeless body out of my way. 

I helped set up the powder kegs to destroy the ship as my men carried the gold and surviving women aboard my vessel. I would let my men have their way with the screaming women until we grew weary of them and threw them into the sea. Not that I cared, but the little girl was spared that fate. She did not have to experience being brutally raped over and over by a crew of pirates, who would later toss them into the ocean when their fun with them was over. 

We finished laying the fuses to the kegs and tied them together at the ends. Another fuse ran from there to the top of the deck like a rope. There had to be enough to make sure we got it to light after we moved away. I finished up and then I heard the splash of the boarding plank falling into the water. It was mutiny. 

My first mate smiled and waved to me while someone threw a firepot onto the deck of the Spanish galleon. I watched my ship, the Cerberus, moving away as the strung fuses burned around me. I cursed my first mate to hell only seconds before the transport vessel exploded into a show of flame and splintered fragments. 

The next thing I remembered was floating in the water holding tightly to a piece of the ship’s hull. I floated there in the salty water until this ship came by and rescued me. 

I heard the two dinghies hit the water as the last of the ship’s crew abandoned their vessel. The lass stood on the deck looking into the crew quarters, looking at me. The dark-haired girl smiled a caring smile as a halo of blue light engulfed her body. I felt the warming love radiating around the girl as she stepped backward and disappeared into the light. 

I cried out, pleading for her not to leave me. I begged her not to leave me alone. The beautiful glow retreated from me as I staggered up the stairs to the upper deck. I tried to catch up to the heavenly light; I wanted so desperately to go into the light. 

Suddenly the anchor chain snapped and I fell flat to my face. When I looked up, the beautiful blue light was gone. I was left aboard the vessel alone. The tattered sails caught a wind not there. I grabbed the helm and tried to take control of the ship. The rudder was stuck; I could not get the helm to turn. I struggled with the wheel as the scorched Spanish flag flapped on the mast above me. 

Days passed and I could not find any food or water. I saw no land, but even if I did, I had no rowboat to get me there. By the fifth day, I should have been dead. My stomach cramped with hunger and my dry lips cracked and bled. Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. I reached a level of thirst and hunger I never imagined possible. 

I realized I would not die because I was already dead. The others were dropped off in the places they deserved, either a place of paradise, punishment or something in-between. This was my punishment. This was my hell. I was doomed to spend eternity forever sailing south without food or water into increasingly cold weather aboard this rickety old ship. 

Copyright 2018 – Michael Wilson 

Word Count: 6,611

I was only thirteen years old when the hallucinations began. A few weeks after my birthday, I began to perceive objects not visible to others around me. That is why I find myself where I am now.

In the very beginning, I did not realize the unusual things I saw were real. The first situation in which I recall seeing something intangible, some friends and I were hanging out in the forest behind our small secluded neighborhood. A buddy of mine snatched some pot from his father’s stash, and we darted off into the woods to hide while we got stoned. Back here in the country, there were not many places besides the forest were teens could hide and hang out.

The four of us lay with our backs against a large smooth boulder in a small clearing. We spent many of our days speculating on what our futures would be like. Brandon dreamed of being an agricultural engineer, as did Francis. This was nothing unusual as this was primarily an agricultural community. Scotty dreamed of being in politics; he thought he could help change the way the world thinks. Me, I always thought I would be a doctor. I wanted to help sick people.

I thought I must have gotten a major head rush, because I swore I saw a couple of men standing to the right of where I sat. What instantly clued me in to the fact what I saw was not corporeal was both men wore clothing common to the days shortly after the American Revolution. To compound upon this surrealist nature of the scene, the men conversed in a dialect of the English language not spoken in more than 400 years. I remember reading in school words like these, but this is the first time I ever heard them spoken fluently.

Immediately I pointed the unusual sight out to my friends, but all they did was laugh and mock me. The three other young men with me thought I was just incredibly stoned, or I was pulling their leg. Either they lied to me, or I saw things that were not there. I don’t think my friends had any reason to lie. We’ve been pals for a long time. Surely they would say if they beheld the same site as I. That left only one option; I must be going crazy.

Drug propaganda at the time tried to make the public believe any mind altering substance brought about with it serious mental and neurological ramifications. I did not believe it initially, but as the number of visions increased I started blaming them on the marijuana. At first, when I gave up smoking the psychedelic plant, the visions did seem to stop, but not for long though, for slightly more than a month later, the strange sightings resumed.

An old road – a road cleared several hundred years ago – twisted through the endless forest behind my small neighborhood. Our town consisted of nothing more than six residential blocks of homes. Even the nearest convenience store was thirty minutes from here.

Grass and weeds now choked the long abandoned thoroughfare. Young green saplings rose from the grass in spotted clusters with the occasional climbable tree mixed in among them. To the untrained eye, it may not be evident at all that this pathway ever saw the traffic of an innumerable amount of horse-drawn carriages, wagons, and stages. No one used this road for travel or trade for hundreds of years. To be fully honest, I did not understand why the trees did not completely conceal the road. Still, anyone from around here knew without a doubt it was indeed an old travel route.

A few weeks later I had about the most terrible day. I failed a test, I was sent to the office because of disruptive behavior, and the resident ruffians threatened to beat me at the end of the day when the school bell rang.

Fighting was not a skill I possessed in any large quantities. Thinking and attentiveness were more descriptive of me. My exceptional intellect and my small size made me the target of not only the resident bullies, but also by most every other student in school.

Because of my advanced book smarts and my uncanny perception, the school placed me in two classes higher than the other children my age. I was glad to be taking courses that somewhat challenge me intellectually, but it always made me the smallest student in class. It aggravated many of the other students that I had such an easy time with my schoolwork; some of them studied constantly in order to receive marks one or two letter grades below mine. I knew they resented the ease with which I approached my assignments, but I didn’t really understand why. It is not as if my good grades made theirs worse.

I slipped out one of the side doors as soon as the school bell rang. My antagonists expected me to get on the bus where they would torture me until the transport reached my stop. I knew the trails through the hardwood forest very well, so I decided to flee into the woods and walk home rather than let that football player and his pals amuse themselves at my expense.

I meandered along the winding trail until I reached the old road. By following this pathway, I would reach the back of my family’s yard within thirty minutes. This long stretch of the old path was unfortunately filled with thick briars, so I was forced to walk through the cover of the trees for a good hundred yards or so. When the mass of thorn bushes finally came to an end, I got back on the road and bounded off for home.

Grasshoppers, crickets, and innumerable flying insects created a blur of motion as I pushed my weight through the four-foot high grasses. My disturbance of the foliage roused gnats, flies, and worst of all mosquitoes. My body was accustomed to the needlelike bites of those bloodsucking insects, but it was still annoying when they swarmed and fluttered around my face.

With the skill of a veteran hunter, I trod along the old pockmarked road at a fair pace. Not really focusing my attention, I enjoyed the sounds of the birds, frogs, and insects. When the noises nature sang to me ceased abruptly, I knew something was terribly wrong.

The abrupt cessation of nature’s singing was not due to the presence of other children. Their presence may cause a ruckus among the forest denizens, but if anything it would rouse even more noise. Not even the gnats and bloodsucking mosquitoes buzzed about the late afternoon air. I grew so accustomed to hearing the sounds of nature after my parents moved me out here in the country, and when their songs ceased, I instantly knew something was amiss.

I turned in circles trying to catch some glimpse of whatever was responsible for the sudden change in the behavior of the insects and reptiles causing them to cease their songs. I did not see anything; I didn’t see anything other than what I should expect to see in this forest. Still, I knew something aberrant was happening. Exactly what that was I did not know.

I stood motionless for several long minutes afraid to move. I didn’t want to alert the unnatural thing that may be hidden. It might spot me if it did not do so already. I carefully scanned the area with my eyes, too trepid to move anything else. I finally mustered the courage to move my head, and once again scan for anything atypical of this region of woodlands.

I turned back towards my house and ran. Even as familiar as I was with this old thoroughfare, I still could not miss all of the potholes and ruts dug by wagons centuries ago. I tripped on one of the old ruts, and then I heard something strangely anomalous.

Not too far off in the distance, I was sure I could hear horses coming, but that was not possible. No one I knew who owned horses ever rode them along this road, not at the speed at which they seemed to be coming. It would be really easy for a horse to break its leg galloping here. Regardless, I knew the clatter of horses, and this was it.

The sounds drew nearer, and the crack of a whip pierced the air. By now there was very little doubt the horses were towing a wagon, but no wagon could possibly navigate the old tree spotted road at this current rate of approach. I tried to jump above the tall grass so I could see the source of the noise, but unfortunately I was not able.

I should have run. I should have dived off the road. I should have done something more than I did. I stood petrified in front of the venerable dual carriage-way unflinching and unmoved. The absence of the croaking and chirping of the forest creatures, hearing the sounds of a horse-drawn wagon, and the congested foliage told me something not normal was heading right for me.

It seemed to leap out of nowhere. A stagecoach followed four draft horses, and they were moving in a hurried pace. The driver wore the clothes of a 16th century pauper while a nicer dress man sat atop the carriage tightly gripping a blunderbuss.

By the time I saw them, I ran out of time to jump out of the way. The driver of the wagon did not seem to notice me. He could not avoid hitting me without turning over the coach anyway. Throwing up my hands in a futile effort to protect my face, I prepared for my imminent demise.

None of the foliage choking the road wavered; none of it gave way as the wagon barreled down the path. Instead of trampling me, the horses passed harmlessly through me. The wagon did not run me down. It continued to advance along its way, and left me without ever seeming to have any idea I was present.

I turned to look at a horse-drawn wagon as it sped away from me. Not only did the conveyance manage to pass through the tall grass and weeds, I watched it pass unhindered through an 18 foot tall oak tree.

I did not know what to think, believe, or trust about the things I witnessed. Pushing through my panic and fear, I tried to remember everything I saw. I thought if I could recall more of the ghostly apparitions, I might understand more clearly their meaning.

By no means was I any sort of historian, but I was still sure the clothes worn by the driver and the man riding shotgun belonged to a time long forgotten. The weapon the man sitting on top of the stained wooden carriage carried was a very early version of the shotgun. The blunderbuss was never a widely used weapon because of their tendency to explode in the face of the user. That was a weapon much more associated the 14th to 17th centuries. I remembered the style of weapon as shown in the illustrations in my history books.

The wagon was of early colonial design as well. Thinking of these spectral images, I believed what I saw to be ghosts. Even though I sustained no physical injuries, my mind went into sensory overload. My limited brain could not logically explain what happened. Although the apparitions ran right over me, I did not think they meant any harm. Regardless, the whole ordeal terrified me, and I ran as fast as my trembling legs could carry me. In less than five minutes, I found myself jumping the fence into our backyard.

Mother and father still were not home, which was a relief to me. That gave me time to wash off my face and calm myself. My parents would never understand me if I told them what I saw. They thought me peculiar enough without telling them stories about ghost carriages. I felt it best not to inform them about anything concerning my recent hallucinations.

During supper, I lingered around the dining table not saying much of anything. It took me much longer than usual to finish my plate. My parents could see something was bothering me, and I could feel their worry over my well-being. It was obvious they were concerned about me.

After dinner I cleaned up the dirty dishes from the dining room, and headed on up to my bedroom and went straight to bed. The dreams I experienced during this nights rest put me in a setting very early in America’s history. When I awoke, the memories of my dream quickly faded. I grabbed a pencil and notepad and instantly recorded everything I could remember. By the time I touched lead to paper, nearly all memory of last night’s dream was gone.

It was now the weekend and I politely ask mother if she would be so kind as to take me to the community library. I hoped I might find some answers to help explain my visions.
Mom already planned to head into the tiny municipality we called the city – and we lived quite some distance from town – so she said she would drop me off at the library before running her errands.

I went straight to the back of the book repository because the bulk of the town’s recorded history was stored there. With fervor and speed, I flipped through the pages of the book until I found some information about this area around the year 1521. The book was old and unique, so I could only study it very carefully under the closely watching eyes of the librarian.

I went through several books – most of them contained dry historical facts of the time – but I finally found the information I sought. I did not know what I was looking for when I began, but I knew what it was when I found it.

My neighborhood, the town, and much of the rest of the area were settled by what were repeatedly referred to as witches. In truth, they were not witches. They did not worship Satan because they did not believe in the devil. The people of this new settlement paid homage to on archaic pantheon of gods.

A common misconception was settlers first came to the New World so that they would have freedom of religion. The problem was these Christian sects wanted freedom only for their own creed, not for everyone else in the budding country. The Christian denominations in the New World did not stand for any sort of religion that did not acknowledge the Christian savior as their own.

The original settlers of this community faced hatred and persecution from any nearby Christian settlements. After repelling several attacks, the settlers turned to nature to protect themselves. Suddenly outsiders found the perimeters of the nature worshippers’ territory surrounded by a thick wall of thorny blackberry bushes.

Within days, wide bands of poison ivy wove through the briars, climbed the trees and created sheets of the caustic plant stretching from one tree to the next. Trespassers attempting to lynch the founders of the community began to mysteriously disappear in the forest never to be heard from again. Eventually, outsiders learned to leave the pagan settlers alone.

Many generations passed and the citizens of the reclusive community resumed trade with the surrounding settlements. It seemed others forgot the stories of the pagan society as the decades passed. The communities growing in the region now remembered such things as nothing more than legend and myth.

Despite the reclusive peoples’ assimilation into “normal” society, no amount of acceptance would get the nature worshippers to stop worshiping their false gods and join the Christian fad that seemed so popular at the time.

Over the next several hundred years, many of the decendants of my town’s forefathers gave in to the pressure and placed their loyalty in the trio of gods all of my ancestors believed to be false. Despite those who renounced their true belief in their gods, the old religion continued to thrive and grow.

When the witch hunts of Salem began, the worshipers of the ancient gods moved their religion to the underground. They held meetings in secret. They hid their sacred relics in a variety of sealed chambers, and many faithful worshipers held their rituals in secret behind closed doors.

The elderly yet beautiful librarian approached me from behind. As I glanced at my watch, I knew she was about to make me leave. Sure enough, the kindly woman told me the building was closing. I wished I could bring some of the ages-old books home with me. Unfortunately, due to their condition and uniqueness, the tomes were not allowed out of the archives room.

Because of school five days a week and the distance to town, it would be several weeks before I could again return to the library. Until then, most of my free time was spent out in the woods looking for something not truly there. A whole week passed without any more strange visions. Then the sleepwalking began.

My parents began finding me sleepwalking and sitting on the floor engrossed in a book or magazine. Never once did they find me reading textbooks or any other similar educational materials. Most of the time they found me reading unusual materials such as owner’s manuals for their cars, the warranty packets for our kitchen appliances, and even the phone books. When mom and dad could rouse me awake, I never remembered any of this strange behavior.

Nearly three long weeks past as I awaited my next visit to the library. I held anticipation for my return as many children would look forward to Christmas. I took a stroll in the woods after school one day to clear my head and calm down my fear of being a target for bullies.

I tried to find the trails I walked countless times, but I did not come across a single one of them. I knew the pathways winding through this forest like I knew my own name. The trails twisted and crossed through one another in hundreds of places, so I should not have to walk far to find one of them. I walked this forest virtually every day and I could not find any of my usual landmarks. None of the trees were where they were supposed to be, and the heavy undergrowth appeared to completely obscure all of my familiar trails.

Until this point, none of my hallucinations possessed any tangible forms. I thought the same might be said about the hidden trails, but I was wrong. As I felt about for spectral foliage, I discovered everything felt very real. I could not find any walking trails at all. The only trails in the area were those created by the forest animals.

Something else was not right, the trees. The woods in which I spent countless hours were all hardwood trees. A majority of the trees now surrounding me were massive cedars. I never saw such gigantic cedar trees in my life. A thought suddenly occurred to me. Just outside of my neighborhood sat a small village comprised of recovered historic homes. The logs from which the buildings were constructed were cedar.

Even though none of the forest appeared as it should, I knew my direction by the position of the sun. Afraid I might become hopelessly lost, I turned and followed the blazing white orb towards home. As I walked, I examine the passing underbrush and saw many plants I was not used to seeing. I spotted a beautiful flower – it appeared to be a perennial – and reached down to pick it.

My heart lept into my throat, and I could not breathe. I trembled in panic as I looked down at my hands. Jumping back from the flower as if trying to jump away from my hands, I nearly tripped and fell on my back. Up to now, it was other things that appeared out of sorts. When I saw now horrified me. The flesh on my hands and arms was wrinkled and covered in liver spots. Fungus stained my fingernails a sickly yellow. I stood and stared at the hands of a very old man.

Experiencing intense reluctance, I finally raised my aged hands, probing the flesh on my face with my bony fingers. This skin I felt with my callused fingers was that of a man my grandfather’s age. I fought to take in a breath. It seemed like my chest constricted and squeezed the organs beneath. It all became too much for me to take and I fainted.

When I awoke, the sun was close to setting. My immediate reaction was to check my hand. To my relief, I saw the hands I should see. My short stubby fingers showed healthy and clean fingernails. The skin was tight and elastic. I looked at my arms and saw no liver spots. Feeling my face, I felt the skin of a 14-year-old boy.

Early in the morning of the following Saturday, I decided to go and check out the historic village a few miles down the highway. I emptied all of the school supplies from my backpack and loaded it with things I would need for my hike. Among other things, I packed a few bottles of cola; some toaster pastries and potato chips; and a magnetic compass. I did not want to have to rely on landmarks and the sun for directions. I told my mother I was going out in the woods to explore and was on my way.

Walking through the forest rather than walking along the highway, it took me nearly two hours to reach my destination. When I arrived, I once again found myself in a place out of time. The village was exactly where it was supposed to be. One major indicator I once again suffered from my hallucinations was, rather than being a place for tourists and school field trips, residents moved about the area. One modestly dressed woman ran laundry throughout hand-crank drier, one woman drew water from a well while a young boy carried firewood from a pile and into a house. I watched for hours as the 16th century Americans went about their manual chores.

I examined my body as the multiple families tended to their daily duties. Once again I found myself occupying the frail body of an elderly man. This time, I paid attention to the garments I wore as well. My britches were made of itchy wool and I wore no shirt at all. Instead, a tunic folded over my upper body, which hung down to my thighs. The belt holding it together was crafted from leather and the buckle was either silver or platinum. I never saw anything remotely resembling the design of the valuable ornament. It was so very out of place when compared to the rest of my garments.

I nearly jumped out of my skin and my heart fluttered when someone addressed me from behind.

“Master Picard, is everything all right?”

I spun around to see a poorly dressed man who, judging by the close resemblance of his face, was the father of the boy toting the fire wood.

The only thought in my mind was, how in the hell did this guy know my last name. The anxiety and panic overtook me, and I fainted as before.

When I awoke, the sun long ago set behind the horizon. No clouds appeared in the sky, so I had an excellent view of the stars. Growing up in the wide country, I learned to navigate by the constellations years ago. Just in case, I withdrew the metallic compass I brought with me. Something was not right.

I immediately realized the needle did not point north; it pointed at the historic village. Thinking it might be stuck in position, I tapped the top to try and jar the needle loose. It came loose all right, but it still did not point north. Now it pointed directly at me. No matter which way I turned, the needle swiveled in the water filled compass to point directly at me.

Already too disturbed to deal with a broken compass, I stowed it in my backpack and followed the stars homeward. Within an hour, I found my familiar walking trails. Now on a well-known route, I tried to jog as much as I could. I knew my parents were already upset with me. We always eat dinner at 5:30 PM every day, and it was much later than that.

I did not know what I was going to tell them. If I told them I got lost in the forest, they would immediately recognize it as a lie. No one knew the woods surrounding our diminutive neighborhood like me.

I quickly began to formulate a story about a bobcat. Those wild creatures were known to inhabit the area. Several dogs and house cats over the years fell victim to these feral animals. Taking advantage of my knowledge, I quickly selected a location for the alleged incident. I knew of a very good place for me to climb an outcropping of massive stone, which would have afforded me safety. As I made the remaining forty-five minutes of my journey, I worked out the specific details.

For no reason could I tell anyone the truth. They would think I was crazy. I was beginning to think that very thing about myself. When the encounters I experienced were no longer incorporeal phantasms, I thought for sure I was losing my mind.

Why was I now having visions of me as a very old man? Why did the forest change to be as it was centuries ago? What was the meaning of that ornamental belt buckle?

Mother and father exacted a punishment of grounding me for a few days for my missing supper. I accepted the consequences without a question. I did not really think they bought the whole bobcat story, but telling them the truth would have been much worse. I would be headed to the county hospital to be locked away on the fifth floor.

I stayed restricted to my room until time for school following Monday. During the bus ride, I looked out the window to see a caravan of five horse-drawn wagons. I looked over the other children on the bus, and it was obvious none of them saw the wagon train I saw as reality. The weeds along the road blurred past as the yellow school bus headed to the school. The wagons were well behind us in no time. I watched them – making their way through an open meadow until the bus turned and entered part of the forest.

If hallucinations are only the figment of one’s imagination, I could never have imagined such intricate detail. I knew very little about early America, the history of the region, much less the type of clothing people wore. Regardless, the things I saw displayed more detail than was in my head.

Two weeks before my 14th birthday, the unwanted images ceased their assault against all my senses. I expected them to return any minute, but three years passed without incident. I was both relieved and anxious at the same time. I felt relieved I did not see any more disturbing images, but I was overanxious from anticipating the images return.

At the beginning of my sophomore year, my sleepwalking spells returned. First my parents found me reading Mom’s magazines and novels set in modern times, not those set in a fictional past. On more than one occasion, they found me going through the pantry and reading everything from cereal boxes to the cleaners under the sink. After I read everything in the house, I waited out on the porch every morning for the newspaper to arrive.

Following the end of the school year, the audio and visual hallucinations returned. Again, the things I saw came from early American history. This time, these phantoms increased tremendously in frequency. Sometimes I found myself witnessing the same scenes over and over. It became obvious to me quickly the things I saw occurred at the same time of day every time. From different places, I saw the images from multiple angles. If these things were truly only in my mind, then my mind was capable of creating a very real and vivid world.

I began to study the things I saw. Before long I was very familiar with some of the people I viewed, as well as their homes, wagons, and virtually all of their belongings. Such intricate detail, things that look this real and this consistent, it was hard for me to believe it was simply the product of a delusional mind.

When I was old enough to drive, I decided to return to that library to see if I could to learn about the early settlement that grew to become the community I know today. Ever since the visions became more frequent and more real, I avoided returning to that library for fear of what I might find. Now, I felt it may be the only hope I had to avoid going completely insane.

Cold sweat seeped from my pores as I entered the archive room. Chills ran down my back as I looked at the shelves containing those centurys-old books. I saw them once before when I first studied their contents, but now they possessed a familiar quality going far beyond my previous work with them.

It took a bit of conscious effort before I could muster the courage to walk my way over to them. I felt a consciousness present, calling me through the centuries old tomes. I felt a darkness to this unseen presence that made me want to flee, yet something inside me made me stay. A voice inside my head told me these were something very important I must see, something inside one of the 400 year old books.

Stepping only a few inches at a time, I reluctantly made my way to the aged leather-bound books. Their antiqued weathered appearance made all of the books nearly identical to one another. One book seemed to me to stand out from all the rest. When I came here to research several years ago, I looked through the books at random. Now, I knew exactly the book I needed.

I recalled seeing no tomes during any of my hallucinations, but I was always too afraid to get close to any of the wagons or log cabin homes I witnessed in my all too real visions. I examined my recurring visions from different angles, but I always made sure to keep my distance from them. Ever since that man identified me by name during my spying on the small hamlet, I was afraid to approach any of the spectral images too closely. I was too scared I would again be noticed. I supposed any of those wagons or cabins may have housed one or more of the books through which I now read. As a matter of fact, I was sure of it.

My apprehension caused the short walk to the far bookshelf to feel as if it lasted for an eternity. I knew, I had no idea how, but I knew the exact book that would make this make sense as soon as I read the pages in that tome. I could sense I was about to get the answers to all the questions echoing in my thoughts.

I finally reached the shelf, opened the glass cabinets, and retrieved that beckoning manuscript. I treated it with such care; I had to treat it very carefully. I stepped over and placed it gently upon the table. I did not pay long attention to the cover of the book, but then I saw embedded in the thick cover of the aged tome the platinum belt buckle I saw around my waist as I spied on the small village. I recognized some of the scratches and scuffs on the item embedded in the tome as the same item I wore when I saw myself as a man my grandfather’s age.

Visions suddenly surrounded me from all sides. Phantom trees appeared, their trunks rose out from the floor of the building and climbed through the ceiling. My heart murmured when a herd of deer bound through the walls. Sheets of vines and brush replaced the tables and bookshelves. Within seconds, the forest became real and the library faded to illusion.

I became aware of the sound of dogs barking in the distance. The chirping of forest critters sang an eerie song, and I felt a gentle breeze blowing against my liver spotted skin. The pleasing evergreen sent of cedar hung heavily in the damp air. The foliage looked every bit as real as any other I have seen, and I could feel the soft cushion of a bed of needles under my feet.

Glancing down at my hands, I found myself holding two artifacts. In my left hand I gripped tightly onto a crystal sphere. It was not a clear crystal ball like the fortunetellers use. The crystal appeared to be made up of opaque lines and produced a cat’s-eye like effect. I believe it was selenite.

What I held in my right hand was much more repugnant. It seemed to be a wand or totem of some sort. The yellowish shaft appeared to be crafted from a human forearm bone. Rawhide twine sewn through holes bored through the knuckle fastened tightly bound feathers and three strings of beads. Unrecognizable symbols appeared to be burnt into the length of the bone, and the grip was wrapped in a skin I could only hope belong to a pig.

The distant dogs barked in frenzy. I figured they must be on the trail of some game animal. They sounded like hunting dogs who finally stumbled on the scent of their prey. When the noise drew closer, I realized the prey was me.

Panicked, I spun myself trying to find a trail or some other escape. Seeing no easy route, I decided I would try to push this frail body through the thick virgin undergrowth. A shock hit me when the thorny foliage moved out of my way. I ran as fast as the old body could take me, and the underbrush never stood in my way. I looked back to see it closed behind me as quickly as it opened.

Using the sun as my guide, I fled to the East as the dogs approach from the West. I did not travel far at all before my muscles and lungs burned. With my own young body, I could run for 30 minutes at a time. In this frail form, I tired after only a few short minutes.

The dogs narrowed the gap between them and me with incredible haste. Even with the cooperation of the thorns, I simply could not travel very fast. I felt them closing in on me when I reached a curtain of poison ivy. The caustic vines covered nearly an acre of forest. To my despair, the skin irritating ivy did not yield its way to me. I thought all hope was lost, and then something amazing happened. The overgrowth of vines opened under no control of my own to reveal a long tunnel.

Not wanting to second-guess the stroke of luck, I walked into the tunnel. Within a couple of minutes I reached the other side. I found myself standing at the edge of a small 16th-century settlement. It was the same town I recognized as the historical attraction only a few miles from my home. The ravages of time had not affected these buildings, and the people living in them were quite real.

They looked upon me startled but not surprised. It appeared they knew me and apparently expected me. I collapsed from exhaustion and several young men came rushing to my aid. Helping me to my feet, they escorted me to a rocking chair positioned in front of the nearest dwelling. All through this, I managed to keep a tight grip on the articles in my hands.

I drew the attention of everyone in this secluded hamlet. One young woman ran to me with a burlap cloth wet with cold water. Using it to dab at my cheeks, she looked at me as if she were suspicious of something.

A young girl came to me with the bowl of bitter tea served in a kiln-baked clay bowl. Everyone seemed concerned with me, and I got the distinct impression they were more worried with making me coherent than with my overall well-being.

When the herbal tea soothed my parched throat enough to allow me to speak, I inquired as to my whereabouts.

“Master Picard, dost thou feel well?” one man asked. It was the same man who asked me that question once before.

“What’s going on here?” I asked with a weak voice.” Who are you people?”

“Did not Master Picard have a safe journey?”

“What do you mean?” I asked out of general confusion.

With that, the villagers turned and walked away from me. The children went about playing and chores. All the men of the village moved across the courtyard to talk. On more than one occasion, I caught them peering at me. I was not being paranoid; I know they were talking about me.

Suddenly I heard the dogs closing in on me again. I turned my head to the barrier of poison ivy as it withdrew from my sight. One of the younger men in the hamlet ran out into the fresh clearing and began to shout to the hunters. The muffled ears of this decrepit body could not make out the contents of the man’s calls. Even though I could not make out the words, I recognized the tone as one of anger.

A group of approximately fifteen men emerged from the forest tightly gripping the leather leashes of their hunting dogs. The villager pointed to me and led the angry mob across the open courtyard to where I sat.

“There is the witch,” the man shouted. “Even now he clings to his scepter made from a human bone, wrapped in the skin of a virgin.”

I could not find it believable this thing in my hand was what they said it was.

The newcomers drug me out into the courtyard by my long unkempt hair. The resident villagers pelted me with flasks of lamp oil while the hunters threw fistfuls of dry pine needles, nearly covering me in the evergreen leaves. The pain from the shattering pots was incredible and the chemicals splashed over my body and blinded my eyes. I never felt or saw the other men piling dry leaves over my body.

A burning lantern smashed against my now broken jaw igniting the flammables with which I was covered. Agony like I never thought possible slowly coursed over my body as the flames spread. My flesh blistered and sizzled as the oil and pine sap burst into an enveloping flame.

It turned out my visions were not hallucinations at all. I saw things from this time because someone was pulling me here. The warlock born to this aged body now inhabited mine. The evil soul of one of my pagan ancestors sent me back here to this time to die in his place.

Copyright © 2019