Authors: Dani Haviland
The slice of ham Red Shirt had given him was generous and enough for two meals at least. The only problem was that the salty repast made him thirsty. He still had water in his canteen but didn’t know where th
ere was a creek nearby. H
is Indian friends knew where all the little springs were in this area
, but he didn’t
. Certainly
,
there was a trick to finding them, or maybe it was just that they were that familiar with the
territory
. “Just a little sip
,
and then I’ll save the rest for later,” he told himself
,
then toped half a mouthful. He carefully rewrapped the remaining meat, placed it inside his bedroll, then got up to continue his journey home, glad that he had remembered to etch his directional marker in the soil before brunch.
Marty fought back the urge to
sprint to his next reference point
, realizing that
, even though it was at least l
ate October, he was likely to
become
overheated with the extra exertion. Instead
,
he paced himself, marching out at a brisk walking pace rather than a slow jog. “Better the tortoise than the hare,” he remarked aloud, remembering that sure and steady wins the race.
“Who goes there?” hollered a gruff voice just ahead of him.
“
C’est moi!
” Marty bragged. “It’s me, myself and I. We’re just passing through and will be gone as fast as these old man legs can take us.”
“Well, good,” the man behind the bushes said. “Let me lighten your load a little then
,
so you can get out of here even faster,” he added sarcastically
and
walked out to present himself.
Grant was back.
Marty gulped hard and managed to stay on both feet although his knees didn’t think it was such
a great idea. Grant had a knife:
a rougher, cruder
version than his previous bone-
handled one. This one had rags tied around the hilt
,
but it still had a blade. The cocky bandit was wielding it like it was a Samurai sword, slicing the air with his broad motions, pretending his little eight inch blade was a full forty inches long. “Well, what do you have for me, mister?” he barked when his air dueling exhibition was over.
Marty stayed mum but tossed his bedroll over to the mangy man’s feet. It appeared Grant didn’t remember him
,
and he wasn’t going to remind him that he was the one who had helped bury him two months ago. Evidently
,
he had managed to dig himself out of his Cherokee tomb with the little shard of wood he had left with him
. O
r
,
some idiot came along and dug him out. Either way, Marty was in harm’s way with the shiftless highwayman, the man with no morals who used to torment and beat his sister, Rachel, for fun.
Rachel. Suddenly Marty remembered Rachel and her new family. Surely
,
there was no way Grant would find his way back to her. He sent up a silent prayer, ‘keep them safe,’ then realized Rachel had a husband, an entire under-populated tribe, to protect her
,
and keep her and her young son saf
e. Marty’s eyes went skyward, ‘A
little help here, too, Lord,’ he prayed silently, hoping again that Grant would not remember him and would leave him with at least his life, and maybe his water, too.
Marty had subconsciously looked at his canteen, half-hidden under his vest, as he said his prayer. Grant saw the eye movement and pointed to the water can. “I’ll relieve you of that, too. I wouldn’t want to slow you down with such a heavy load,” he said, ending his pitiful joke with an evil laugh.
Marty started to protest but thought his chances of surviving a daylong trek without water were better than a minute-long confrontation with a mad
man and his knife. He leaned his head forward and took his neck and shoulders out from under the canteen’s str
ap, biting down on the words, ‘T
ake it and get out of here,’ before they got up to his throat. He didn’t say them but thought them hard enough, making sure that he kept his scowling face low so Grant didn’t get a good look at him.
“You know, I’d kill you just for practice…” Grant stated
,
and then
waited for his prey to look up at him and beg.
But
,
Marty wasn’t buying into it. He had always been a proud man, too proud by many people’s standards, but he had learned from his Cherokee friends not to grovel, that you took what life had to offer and made do with it without demeaning yourself. He wasn’t going to look up
,
but realized that by ignoring Grant, he was probably irritating him even more. Instead, he played a third role: the sick man. He fell to his knees and started coughing, hoping that he’d start gagging and maybe even bring up a bit of his late breakfast. Vomit had a way of turning away everyone’s head. Surely
,
Grant wouldn’t attack a sick man, or chance getting puked on.
Marty’s ploy worked. “Ah, I hope you choke to death,” Grant said
,
then walked over to the bushes from whence he came. He grabbed the reins of a swaybacked nag and led her a few yards away to a low spot in the terrain. He stood beside her, clutched her mane
,
and jumped up, managing to get onto her back in an almost comedic fashion, legs kicking
,
and belly squ
irming against the mare’s spine,
his awkwardness as amazing as the fact that he had completed the feat. Marty bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing then remembered to start coughing and dry heaving again. Hopefully
,
the idiot on the bareback horse would be gone before he needed to produce any regurgitated food.
And then he was gone, out of sight and sound
,
almost as quickly as he had appeared, riding into the east, not a care in the world as he took a pull from the canteen he had taken from Marty. “Shit, just water,” he carped as he dumped out the clear fluid. “I gotta find me some whisky.”
Ж
Marty turned to the left, turned to the right
,
then pivoted around twice. “Shit,” he said as he wiped the slobber from the sides of his mouth. He had managed to keep his food in but
had
made a mess out of hi
s beard with the feigned vomit—t
he spittle evid
ently was enough to repulse Grant. “Which way did he go?” Marty had lost track of his own direction and even the knowledge that Grant had been heading the opposite direction of him was of no use to him now; he couldn’t see or remember which direction the fiend had left.
Late October
, 1782 and 2013
'W
ow!
T
here they are. I'll bet I walked right past them two, maybe three times. I didn't think about the leaves changing colors,' Marty thought. He smacked his lips, trying to work up at least enough moisture to swallow. His little trick didn't work this time but only encouraged a cough.
Marty leaned over and placed his hands on his bare knees, concentrating on a smooth, slow air intake, trying to stifle his cough. 'You're a yogi, you're a yogi,' became his silent mantra
. 'You can control your breath—
slow in, slow out. You're a yogi, hold the breath; exhale.'
He knew his mind was going kaput. He wasn't crazy but physiologically
,
he was shutting down. He had gone too many days without food and only had a few drops
of dew
to drink in the last three days. The grass he ate had tasted great
,
but the diarrhea he suffered from eating too much at once and in its raw state had debilitated his body even further. His problem had a name: electrolyte imbalance. He knew what it was and how to cure it but didn’t have the raw materials on hand. Good old sugar and salt mixed in water, an off the shelf sports drink, would fix him right up. He also knew the results of not getting the sweetened saline solution either orally or intravenously: cardio shutdown. His heart would stop beating. He could already tell it was thump, thump, thudding erratically. 'You're a yogi, you can control everything; you're a yogi, you can control your heart beats...'
He wanted to lie down and rest. "nope," he mumbled aloud
,
as if verbalizing his conviction would hold sway over his weakened body and mind. They were both at the end of their usefulness
,
but his determination was still at 100%. He raised his hands in prayer, "Lord, please just get me back to my family so they can take care of the rest of me. You got my attention. It's You, not some yogi, who’s in charge of my heart, lungs
,
and everything else."
Marty lowered his arms and placed his right hand over his shirt pocket, pulling out the laminated picture of his sons, James and Billy, and their mother, his purple-faced but glowing with pride Bibb, still recovering from her bashing by the MacLeod brothers. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he whispered coarsely then looked at the time portal. This time he was sure that these were the right trees. He clutched his empty belly and felt the queasiness that confirmed the site. He tilted his head up
,
and croaked, "Thanks," to the Lord
,
and walked straight up to the
timber gateway
, clutching his ancient Greek drachma, his silver ticket. “mysterious ways,” he mumbled as he briefly recalled the strange events of the last few months. “mysterious ways,’ he repeated softly
,
then strode through the two sentinels, his vision of Bibb held in his mind as tight
as he held his ancient coin in his trembling hand. “I’m coming home.”
Ж
"Good Lord, who, what's that?" screeched the lady realtor in the tacky, gray jogging suit. "Eww! It's moving!"
Mrs. Goodwin scurried backwards away from the unconscious
,
wild-haired
old man clad solely in a ratty, torn shirt. She looked down
,
noticed his limited wardrobe
,
and hissed, "He doesn't have on any pants!" She turned and dashed the five yards to her shiny
blue
SUV, broke a fingernail pulling at the latch, cursed mildly, jumped into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, started the engine
,
and peeled out from the vacant lot, flinging back dirt and gravel over the prone figure. Her left, white knuckled hand grasped the steering wheel as she blindly rummaged through her little crocheted handbag with her right, finally locating her cell phone. She pressed and held the numeral nine with her thumb, speed dialing the Greensboro Police Department before she was even a hundred yards away.
"911—
what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
"There, there's a, a thing out there at the old Robbins’ place. I think it wanted to kill me!" Cindy babbled hysterically. "It was horrible!"
"Ma'am, are you hurt?"
"No, no; I got away. I, I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't have called. It's just that I thought that he was going to hurt me," she apologized.
"Ms. Goodwin?" the operator asked.
"Um, yes," Cindy replied, "this is her."
"Ms. Goodwin, you have to stop calling us every time you think that there’s someone out to get you. You've cried wolf so many times that if there really was an emergency, well, we'd still respond to it
,
but you’re causing undue stress on our limited resources."
Cindy gulped in embarrassment then uttered a heartfelt, "Sorry."
"Now, if there isn't anyone hurt or in immediate danger, I'll go ahead and hang up," Dyane said. This wasn't her usual job; she was the vacation replacement for the regular dispatcher, but she knew all about Cindy and her panic calls.
"Wait, wait," Cindy blurted out, desperately trying to save face. "There is someone out there. I mean, he probably wasn't going to hurt me
,
but he was on the ground and not moving and, really, maybe you ought to send someone out there. He's right under the big for sale sign, just before you get to the old Robbins’ place.”
“Okay, Ms. Goodwin, I’ll get an officer out there right away. Thank you and good-bye,” Dyane said
,
then disconnected the call.
“If you don’t need me for anything, Dyane, I’m going home,” Billy said as he popped his head in the dispatch office. His shift was over and he had a big bed with his name on it, just waiting for him to plop down and get some much needed shut eye. It had been a long night.
“There’s nothing but another ‘Cindy call
.
’ She said there’s an old man passed out
,
there by the old Robbins’ place. You know, where that woman and crazy old man disappeared a few months ago? I’ll just send a patrol car out there. You know her,” Dyane said with an eye roll and finger twirl around her ear
,
indicating the woman was cuckoo.