The Jump Journal

by Douglas Corriveau

  Eventually, I found myself wading in a bog, in the middle of the night. Barely keeping myself upright, I had hallucinations of seeing headlights three times in the past ten minutes. The swamp grass that brushed my leg in the water was the last straw. After I finished screaming like a little girl and patting myself down frantically for snakes, I jumped forward. Seconds later, my face mashed into the dirt (dry dirt, luckily) and I looked down the trail I had landed on. As I attempted to get to my feet, I coughed and wheezed heavily. My throat felt like a grape that been left out in the sun in the middle of the African savannah. Every nerve in my body screamed “Danger, danger!” As I crawled along the path, a glint of light in the distance caught my attention.

  As my tired eyes squinted for a clearer picture, I pinched myself a couple of times to establish if I was still in reality. Sure enough, I felt my weak fingers shaking as they grabbed a bit of my skin. After double and triple-checking, I realized I was peering between the trees at a isolated cabin with the lights on. I groaned with as much enthusiasm as my pathetic state would allow and shuffled on hands and knees towards it.

  About a quarter of the way there, my body shuddered and gave way. My arms were jelly; my knees were scraped raw. A feverish hot-cold current swept back and forth through my core. I knew then that if I didn’t make it to the cabin in the next few minutes, I would die out there in the woods, too weak to call for help.

  With a herculean effort, I willed my body into an upright position and started crawling again. Heedless of my screaming joints, I sped up, picking up as much momentum as I could. I caught my breath, labored as it was, and with all the concentration I had left, I jumped forward one last time.

  With a thump, I collapsed painfully on the rough-hewn wooden steps of the cabin. Too damaged to be relieved, I gasped as loudly as I could and painfully lifted a hand to hit the door. Before I could, however, the thick wooden door swung open and bashed into my forehead with a meaty smack.

  That’s when the world went black.

  Chapter 16

  I woke to the sounds of a whistling teapot, its high pitched complaint piercing my throbbing head like a skewer. I tried to groan, but all that came out was a distressed hissing of air. I was still too parched for sounds, let alone words. Otherwise, I would’ve asked my host about his magnificent eyebrows right off the bat.

  Let me describe the man I came to know as Chaplain, starting with his eyebrows. They dominated the upper portion of his face in a way that I can only describe as…..uh, prominent. Underneath that enormous brow gleamed two emerald eyes that twinkled with a combination of mischief and wisdom. A peaked nose and a gentle, world-weary smile completed the man’s face. As he shuffled toward the ancient couch that I was laying on, I noticed a slight hitch in his step. It was barely noticeable; a small limp that could have been a long standing injury or just a temporary inconvenience.

  He sat me up and held a wet sponge up to my lips.

  “Suck on this. You’re too parched to drink right now”

  His voice lilted slightly, giving the impression that he was raised somewhere in Ireland, but it was subtle. The tone was gentle and inspired trust. Without question, I obeyed, letting the moisture from the sponge coat my throat. The desert in my mouth absorbed it instantly, leaving me greedy for more. Patiently, he wet the sponge and repeated the process until I was able to drink again. Once I was satisfied, I lay back down and glanced over at the simply-dressed man moving about the single room cabin.

  “Thank you.”

  “Ah, sure. Can’t be leaving you next to dead on my doorstep, now can I?”

  I started to answer, confused by his rhetorical style, but I figured it out in time.

  “Most people would have.”

  He glanced at me over his shoulder.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “People look out for number one, you know?” I pointed at myself limply. “I remember what it felt like to walk past homeless people on the street. Not an ounce of remorse, just hoping to avoid making eye contact.”

  He limped over to a wooden rocking chair that looked as comfortable as a bed of nails.

  “Sounds like remorse to me, son.” His casual use of the word son loosened the knots I hadn’t noticed I had in my chest. “But what do you mean by ‘remember’?”

  “Well, I guess it’s been awhile since I’ve seen someone like that……or anyone outside of the gang.” A thick eyebrow lifted in curiosity. He waited for me to continue. “I was with this……team recently.”

  He waited again, a patient expression on his face. Without warning, the whole story came pouring out of me. Not just the past year, but everything from the first day of school. He was a great listener. He didn’t interrupt except to refill my water when my voice started to give out, always giving small nods of encouragement. Best of all, he didn’t laugh or call me insane. I felt safe telling him my story, even the parts that I didn’t even like to think about.

  When I was done, he settled back in his chair and silently rocked for a while. Now it was my turn to wait. As he rocked, I marveled at the peace I felt. Suddenly, it hit me: I hadn’t ever told my story before. I had always thought that I couldn’t talk to anyone about my ability, and I had never wanted to talk about Tara while I was with Nicolae’s gang. Somehow, putting the events of the past two years into simple words, despite how ridiculous they sounded, released a weight that I hadn’t known I was carrying. I rested my head back against the rustic cabin walls, which bore the same rough cut appearance as the stairs outside had.

  With a slow exhale, my host’s eyes fluttered open. He sat in silence for a second, and when he did speak, he said the last thing that I expected.

  “I’m sorry, son.”

  Sorry? Why was he sorry for me? I was the source of sorrow and misery, not the victim. I searched his face for any trace of sarcasm and found none. He genuinely felt sympathy for me. My lip trembled and I cleared my throat to cover for it, biting the inside of my cheek hard to get myself under control. After all that he was doing to help me, I didn’t want to burden this man with my tears too.

  “I’m sorry for them, too.”

  Well, that helped keep the tears at bay.

  “You mean Tara, right?”

  He straightened up in his chair.

  “No, I mean all of them. Every one of them is hurting.”

  “Well, I don’t want to get technical,” I interjected. “But none of what I told you has actually happened anymore.”

  His green eyes scolded me gently as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

  “Maybe, lad, but don’t think that your gifts are all that cause grief in the world.”

  I flushed, realizing that he was chiding me for being self-focused. He continued.

  “The people that you committed those crimes with are lost at sea, looking for an anchor. For most of them, it’s a strong leader to follow. For this…..Nicolae? For Nicolae, it’s himself. And Tara…” He closed his eyes in sorrow. I winced automatically as I always did hearing her name out loud, but it lacked its usual emotional punch. “Tara lost something that she doesn’t even know she had.”

  I gulped. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear his answer, but I had to ask the question.

  “What?”

  He looked at me in surprise, as if expecting me to know.

  “You, son. She lost a genuine love, and with you gone, I’m sure she hasn’t found another.”

  My heart raced, but even as a glimmer of impossible hope rose in my chest, reality snuffed it out.

  “I betrayed her. I’m not worthy of someone like her.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, but there was no judgment in his tone. “But then, no one is worthy of love. That’s why it’s love.”

  It was then that I knew my rescuer’s occupation. His inflection and his mannerisms were vaguely familiar, but it was the way that he cared for people that gave him away.

  “You’re a priest, aren’t you?”

  He
smiled, but didn’t answer. It didn’t matter; I knew that I was right.

  “What should I call you?”

  The man with the eyebrows stood and hobbled over to the old kerosene lamp and turned it down. In the darkness, I heard him prepare a blanket for himself and get settled into his cot in the opposite corner of the room.

  “I suppose you can call me Chaplain.”

  My eyes fought to close themselves despite my best efforts. I was still exhausted even though I felt much better. I retained consciousness long enough to ask one more question.

  “Chaplain?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Where in Ohio are we?”

  He chuckled.

  “Ohio? You’re in Michigan, son.”

  I was almost asleep when he replied so as I dozed off, the meaning of his words sank in.

  Wait. What? Michigan??

  Chapter 17

  I spent the next few days recovering in Chaplain’s simple home. The cabin was snug with two people since it was clearly built for one. The longer I was there, the more certain I became that Chaplain had built this place himself. I don’t know how, but it bore his aura somehow; simplistic and homey. Chaplain himself was a constant presence in the cabin except for when he disappeared for an hour or two to gather supplies. Judging from the home-cooked meals we had, I had a hunch that this cabin had a well-tended garden and that Chaplain wasn’t a bad hand with a rifle.

  It was somewhat disconcerting when I thought about how this man lived. I mean, I had heard of hermits and monks from the Middle Ages, but I hadn’t realized that was still practiced. Occasional solitude was one thing, but total isolation was a lifestyle I couldn’t even imagine being comfortable with. One day when Chaplain returned with the vegetables, I decided to ask him about it. He laughed.

  “I don’t live in solitude, lad. Sure, I don’t leave the cabin grounds, but every time I start to notice the silence, I always seem to receive a guest.”

  He nodded in my direction with a smile. I couldn’t help but smile back. Still, I had a few more questions.

  “But don’t you ever want something that you can’t get here?”

  “Like what?”

  “Uhh…” I wracked my brain trying to think of all the things that were just on the tip of my tongue. “You know, just…things.”

  His shoulders shook as he chopped the carrots.

  “What more do I need? I have shelter, food, clothing, and my work. Is there something that I am missing?”

  I desperately wanted to come up with something in reply. His simplistic life reminded me shamefully of the greedy thoughts that I’d had when Nicolae offered me a place on his crew. Chaplain saw my perplexed expression and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “Not everyone is cut out for my life, son. It is a struggle, more than I like to admit. It is my life, however, and I am content.”

  I was stunned. This man had more honesty than anyone that I’d ever met, except maybe Tara. If anything, Chaplain had a blend of wisdom and grace that few men come to possess in their lifetime, let alone in their early fifties. I was unaccountably jealous; I couldn’t help but imagine how different it all would have been if I had possessed an ounce of his contentment with the world as it was.

  “Chaplain?”

  “Mmm?”

  I hesitated.

  “Do you think I could learn to live like you do?”

  He glanced over at me like he was weighing my chances. I held my breath, suddenly nervous that he would turn me down.

  “No,” he said softly. “Not like me. You need to find your own way. I can help you, but it will ultimately be up to you to do this.”

  I swallowed hard, relieved. I nodded. I was ready.

  For the next few weeks, I discovered more and more about myself. The first thing that I learned was that I hate gardening. Absolutely loathe it. Chaplain seemed to find a quiet peace in working with the dirt and the plants. All I found was a passionate dislike for mosquitoes and stubborn weeds. I grit my teeth and stuck with it, however, if for no other reason than to earn Chaplain’s respect. I was pretty sure, at this point, that the man could read every emotion on my face.

  The second thing that I learned was that I was no good with silence. Chaplain often retreated into his own head and didn’t speak for hours at a time. Of course, I tried not to disturb him, but the lack of sound left me too much time with my own thoughts. Speaking of thoughts, they were the third thing that I discovered in those first weeks. I hadn’t realized how little time I spent in introspection. It was really my conversations with Chaplain that brought it to my attention. Every day, he would start a discussion about some element of being human with an open-ended statement. Our talks always went something like this:

  “Son, look at this patch of weeds here. I can’t help but admire them.”

  “I can. What’s to admire?”

  “Didn’t you clean out this area yesterday?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m not sharing your enthusiasm.”

  “They were destroyed yesterday, or at least, you thought so. And yet here they are. There are few things on Earth that have that kind of tenacity.”

  That’s when he would smile gently and walk away, leaving me to wonder if we had really been talking about weeds. Or another day:

  “Ryan, do you think people are good?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, lad. Are they kind? Do they care for each other?”

  “No.”

  He looked at me sadly.

  “Then maybe it isn’t what they actually do, but how you see what they’re doing, that shapes your opinion.”

  It was things like that that always kept me thinking. I knew that he wasn’t musing out loud for his own benefit; it was clearly meant for me to mull over on my own.

  Daily activities were always the same at the cabin. We rose early in the morning, which took a lot of getting used to, especially after my nocturnal habits from the previous year. It was bizarre, being awake in time to greet the sun as it broke across the amber field behind the cabin. As soon as we were up and about, we got started on the garden, which was the most frustrating part of the day. After we were done our work in the afternoon, Chaplain would cut me loose for the last few hours of sunlight. I found myself taking walks for hours, sometimes musing out loud, other times just observing the world around me.

  With all that time on my hands, I committed a lot of mental energy to the dilemma of time-travel. I had never been much of a scientist, or a student for that matter, but I had a lot of hands-on experience with the subject, which gave me a solid groundwork for theories. I developed a habit of writing down my thoughts on what little paper I could find in the cabin until Chaplain provided me with a leather-bound notebook. That book became my first journal.

  Most of my notes were wild hypotheses, but occasionally my ramblings would take on more personal subjects. There was something cathartic about putting pen to my internal dialogue, a kind of release similar to talking, but for my eyes only. I mentioned this to Chaplain, and he didn’t seem surprised.

  “Writing’s always been a source of comfort to mankind, lad. There’s something sacred about the gift of language that makes it essential to us. Why do you think most religious texts are written word?”

  I hadn’t actually considered that, but it made sense on an emotional level. I often re-read my notes, noticing phrases that I liked and remembering the feelings that I’d had at the time. Chaplain was right; there was something really special about writing. After a while, it was a ritual to take a few hours of spare time and scratch out some kind of entry in the journal. And it was during one of those times that I met Rachel.

  Chapter 18

  Expectations are the viruses of the mind. You might try to avoid them, but they’re constantly slipping past your guard despite your best efforts. Sometimes you see the symptoms; some heavy daydreaming, a pounding anticipation, maybe even some chronic worry. The trouble is that expectations are
almost never easy to get rid of. There are antibiotics for viruses. The mind’s predilection for predictions is a terminal illness.

  ****

  Rachel……What is there to say about Rachel? I suppose I can start with a description. She was a short, cute brunette with twinkling green eyes and a sharp sense of humor to match. I grew to appreciate and dislike that dry wit of hers; I wasn’t used to being matched blow for blow in the area of witty repartee, but her company was worth it.

  I met her during one of my journaling sessions. Since arriving at Chaplain’s place, I hadn’t ventured more than a few miles into the woods for fear of losing track of the cabin. I started getting heart palpitations if I lost eye contact with the ramshackle hut. That should give you enough context for how isolated we were, which explains just how startling my first encounter with Rachel was.

  I was totally focused on my journal. It wasn’t because I was having an epiphany, but because my handwriting is atrocious. If I don’t put every ounce of concentration that I have into each pen stroke, even I won’t be able to translate it. Anyway, I had thrown all my concentration into my writing, so you can imagine my surprise when, out of nowhere, a woman raced around my tree at a breakneck pace and tripped over my legs in a flurry of multi-colored clothes.

  As she groaned and dusted herself off, I gaped like a moron. I don’t think she even realized what she had tripped over until I attempted to speak. My usual snarky eloquence had disappeared with the speed of Road Runner from Looney Tunes and I was left feeling like Wile E. Coyote after a smash hit from a falling anvil. I wasn’t just surprised by her appearance; yeah, it was startling, but it was the randomness of it, combined with the fact that I hadn’t seen a soul other than Chaplain for the past two months, that left me speechless. So, instead of speaking, I did the next best thing… I squeaked.