Authors: Janet Cooper
"Portage?" Michelle frowned
. Even the few lines that cross her forehead did nothing to distract from her very attractive face.
"Carrying a canoe from one
navigable body of water to another," Sarah said somberly.
"You sound like the director of a museum instructing the visitors," Michelle teased
.
"I guess I was using my "teacher's voice
."
"How
do you know about a portage?"
"While you were probably busy flirting with all the good-looking high school guys, I was out canoeing with my girl scout troop and occasionally portaging,"
Sarah teased. “Plus to earn extra money, I often guided people down the Brandywine.” To herself she added, and might have to start again if money remained tight.
"Wasn't that the senior troop you mentioned that had more men than women?" her neighbor retorted
.
"I pled guilty," she said, in as somber a tone as possible
.
They smiled and burst out laughing
.
"Since we've seen all there is down here, what say, we find out what your darling son an
d daughter are doing upstairs?"
Her eyes opened wide
. "Oh, my lands. They have been awfully quiet, haven't they?"
Sarah
giggled as Michelle hurried toward the steps.
* * * *
After the party,
Sarah threw off her cap, kicked off her uncomfortable black leather shoes, and sank onto the high-back wooden settee that stood in front of the fireplace. Before she'd properly positioned the stool for her feet, a gray and black tabby jumped on her lap. "Hello, Puss," she said, as she stroked its soft, silky ears. "I'm exhausted. How about you?"
Puss meowed
.
"Hard day?"
Again, a purr.
"Mine, too
." She stared at the cold open hearth and wished one of the little costumed fairies she'd entertained at the museum earlier that evening had been real. If they had, Sarah would have borrowed a smidgen of magic dust, sprinkled the powder, and ignited the firewood. Not having the energy to complete the task herself, she pulled an Afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her chilled legs. Pantyhose would certainly be warmer than the short stockings she was wearing as a part of her Quaker costume. She rubbed the top of her thighs, trying to chase away the goose bumps.
The cat snuggled closer
.
"Just give me a few minutes to thaw and I'll get your dinner
."
The response was to paw the knitted cover and enlarge his nest
.
"Stop that,"
Sarah scolded.
Her comments affected Puss not at all, and
Sarah was too tired to argue.
Beginning to relax for the first time all day, she laid her hand on the top of Puss' head, leaned back her head, and stared at the map
. Why or how had the cartographer made that mistake? Perhaps, he’d only seen the river in the spring or after a heavy rain. Strange.
"Daughter, wake up!"
Sarah dragged her eyelids opened.
What's happening?
she thought, trying to chase the thick cloud of sleep from her brain. Turning in the direction of the man's voice, she blinked and shook her head, unable to comprehend what she saw or what was happening.
"The taver
n is full of guests, and thou art sleeping. What is the matter with thee?" the scold continued.
Feeling as though her mind was moving in very slow motion,
Sarah stared at the short man standing in the doorway of her living room. His appearance didn't frighten her, just surprised her. Of course, she was dreaming. Still she wondered, who was he? Why was he calling her daughter? And what was he talking about? Her tavern-home full of guests?
His Quaker costume reminded her of the Halloween party she had hosted earlier that evening
. The plain horn buttons of his waistcoat strained against their threads. Yet he appeared prosperous, not fat. His bushy, gray hair stuck out in all directions as if he'd run a toothless comb over his head. Even in the dim light, the lines of age showed in his face. She peered closer, trying to recognize him.
Before she could ask a single
question, the portly man with the solemn expression went on, "Make thyself presentable and join me in the public room. With Daniel gone, I need thee to help serve."
Was she recreating the party the museum had held earlier but adding new twists to make her dream more interesting? The man's antiquated speech increased the authenticity of the reenactment
. Oh, well. If this fantasy failed to live up to its possibilities, she'd change the scene and start again.
Throwing off the blanket, she placed her stocking feet on the pine floor,
than jerked them back. She stared at the logs burning briskly in the fireplace. Obviously, the heat from the fire had kept the furnace from clicking on. But, I didn't light the fire.
She stopped. This is a dream, remember? Sarah shivered as she hunted for her shoes. A small worry nagged at her. She had never before felt sensation in a dream. Perhaps, I'm really cold and needed another blanket. Should I search for one, or just continue without for the time being?
Sensing someone staring at her, she glanced at the doorway
. The Quaker gentleman appeared rooted there, so much for looking for another blanket and lying back down.
She heard laughter, and the deep tones of men's voices coming
from the far side of the house, in what during Colonial days would have been the common room. As she put on her black leather pumps, she wondered,
How did I manage all that noise?
Before she could seek an answer, she heard a man clearing his throat
. Staring up at him again, she wondered if he had expected her to reply to his earlier comment? Uncertain and uncomfortable with his peering at her, she said, "I'll be right there, as soon as I splash a little water on my face." Having secured her buckled shoes, she picked her cap off the floor and tucked it into the waistband of her apron.
"Do hurry," he admonished before disappearing from her sight
.
The glow from the fireplace shone on the steps and gave her light as she raced upstairs to the bathroom
. Upon entering the only room on the family side of the second floor, she stopped. Everything in her bedroom looked wrong. Instead of her mother's Art Deco furniture, a style that didn’t match the house, but since it was a gift she gratefully used what was available, a large poster bed filled one wall and opposite stood a Chippendale mahogany breakfront wardrobe. On the near wall, a beautiful, large looking glass. Her brows drew into a bewildered frown. Now, why would she use an 18th Century term to describe the mirror?
Too much museum work
, she decided.
Feeling nature's call, she started for the bathroom door, but found only solid paneled walls
. Her confusion increased. Searching the area again, she spied a chamber pot under the bed.
I guess in a period dream, one has colonial toilets,
she thought, less than delighted with the prospect.
The same man ca
lled from below, "Sarah, do hurry."
After completing her toiletry, she hastened down the stairs
.
Next time I have a dream, can we include modern plumbing?
she implored the gods who had sent her this one.
The noise from the opposite side of the house resounded in the private parlor
, which in her own home was a small kitchen and sitting room. When she pushed open the connecting door to the public area, the smell of burning wood, tobacco, venison stew, and gingerbread mingled into a cozy, welcoming aroma.
Now, I've added smells to my dream. Wow! Maybe I could patent this technique. That is if I can discover what I've done.
Behind these thoughts, another concern edged forward
.
This couldn't be happening, could it?
Instantly, she dismissed the ridiculous idea. Still, the room did look entirely different.
Why not? Dreams don't follow reality.
She quickly surveyed, which is her own home, held her
dining room furniture. Instead of one large round table surrounded by upholstered high-back chairs, she saw half a dozen smaller tables and Windsor chairs. Directly in front of the open heart stood a long, trestle-style oak table; her server and china closet were also missing from the room.
Five ‘guests’
sat a various spots throughout the room; all of them dressed in colonial garb. She failed to see any women. The short, portly man, who had called her daughter, caught her attention, frowned, and then gestured her to come in.
Sarah
hurried to the caged-in bar that fortunately had stayed the same.
"Thy head is uncovered!" the Quaker gentlemen rebuked her again
.
His words came as a surprise to her for her own father hadn't noticed her clothes since she'd borrowed his tux jacket for a costume
. The time before, she'd been sixteen and had used red dye on her hair. However, Sarah pulled the cap out of the waistband of her apron and plunked it on her head. A streak of stubbornness emerged, after all this was her dream, so she refused to tie the lappets under her chin. "Satisfied?"
He frowned at her
again, but this time with confusion more than displeasure. "The men sitting at the corner need three ales," he said placing the pewter mugs on a tray.
For the next several hours,
Sarah scurried from the bar to the tables delivering drinks and from the open-hearth fireplace to the tables serving food. Although the distance wasn't great, she never had a break. Her feet, back and arms ached from the unaccustomed chores.
How can I be tired in a dream? Since I have to work tomorrow, it's time to wake up or at the very least to change this dream.
She tried to reconstruct the illusion, but nothing happened. A twinge of panic tweaked her. She remembered her earlier concern about reality. Again she dismissed the notion and sought another reason.
Perhaps, I'm trying to leave the fantasy too soon. I've read about dreams telling or helping your mind learn necessary things. Could this be why I can't escape or control what's happening?
A customer calling for service caused Sarah to push aside her questioning--but the earlier uneasiness remained and deepened.
Could this actually be occurring? No! Never!
Eventually, the last patron gathered his hat and prepared to leave
. "Good night, Mistress Stone, Benjamin."
Sarah
nodded her good-byes as Benjamin closed the door, then thought of the customer’s words--Stone.
I have a different last name—but the same first—odd.
When the latch clicked,
Sarah sighed with relief. She stretched her back.
I wish the dream to end.
Nothing changed. Her stomach twisted. She picked up a mug, held the pewter stein in her hand, and felt the weight of cup.
Why wasn't it weightless?
She hoisted a tray of dirty flagons and carried them toward the bar.
Why did her whole body ache with every movement if this were a dream? Could she be sleeping in an awkward position?
Consciously
Sarah contorted her body and strove to wake up. Failure to change anything caused a real sense of panic to overwhelm her. She fought for control. There must be a logical explanation for all of this. The only one that came to mind was that somehow she had slipped into another time zone. This answer increased her fears 100 percent. There had to be another reason.
I just haven't found the explanation. But I will.
As she was searching for another rationale, a tall, olive skinned man entered the inn
. He caught and held her interest. Her immediate and temporarily unsolvable problem, she put on hold. She hadn't been making much progress with new ideas, so she might as well enjoy what she saw standing at the doorway.
His long, black hair,
shinning like the finest velvet, was tied back in a queue. The style emphasized his strong, chiseled features. His dark gaze pierced every detail of his surroundings without showing any reaction, and then, those midnight eyes inspected Sarah just as thoroughly as he had the tavern. After initial annoyance, she realized how unemotional his inspection was, much the way she examined a new place or a new idea. His analytically approach paid close acute attention to everything.
This man's aura spoke of danger, either that or she'd
been reading too many thrillers. Her heart hammered harder. Who was he? Where had he come from? For the first time since this illusion began, she hoped that she had crossed over into another dimension so that she might learn more about this enigmatic man.
While she watched, he raised an eyebrow
. She flushed as his black eyes ran over her body. This look reminded her of men in her world. The reflection stopped her. Was she accepting the time warp notion?
Never.