by Alex Myers
“You’re a heck of a lot closer to Norfolk.”
“How close?”
“About three miles or so east.”
“And to Virginia Beach?”
“Hmm.” Murphy said pulling on his beard. “With the poor roads, probably about thirteen or fourteen.”
“We can’t be that close to Norfolk. I don’t see any roads or buildings.”
“Well, the town is growing like wildfire, there’s something new every time I visit, new buildings and all, but trust me young feller, the town is there.” Murphy squinted at Jack with one eye closed as if Jack was crazy. “You got a mind to eat?” Murphy asked. “I’m just about ready to sit myself down to some grub. You’re welcome to get yourself some and sit a spell. We ought to get you cleaned up first and let me take a look at your wounds. Doesn’t look to be you’re still bleeding.”
Jack thought it was strange how nonchalantly the old man took to a stranger showing up bloody and injured and how easily he’d offered to help. He figured he probably could use a little doctoring, no matter how un-antiseptic it might be. Jack got a real big whiff of the food. Hungry? Man, I’m stomach-aching hungry, low blood sugar hungry, almost shaking. God knows the last time I ate.
“Water? There’s water around here, right?” Jack remembered the line of trees and the river. “I’m so thirsty my tongue is swelling.”
“I’ll have you some water quicker than corn through a short dog.”
Murphy motioned Jack to follow him into the house. Entering, Jack looked around. It was dark and bare, but clean and airy. The main room served as the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The walls, the ceilings, and floor all seemed cut from the same rough wood with the floor buffed shiny and smooth in the worn places. There was a huge river-rock fireplace in the center of the room, evidently used both for warmth and for cooking because a steaming pot hung by a metal swing arm over the fire. The smell of cooked pork, garlic, and leeks made Jack swoon.
Murphy placed his rifle on a table made of pine boards with X-shaped trestle legs. He went to a sink that looked like the bottom third of a giant whisky cask. Two lead pipes with spigots came through the wall at the top of the tub, and underneath, a larger lead pipe drained the tub. Murphy grabbed a piece of cloth that looked as if it had had a former life as a shirt. He helped Jack clean his head wound, scrubbing hard with warm water from the tap.
“Does that surprise you? Not many folk have hot water right out of a pipe. I use a black cistern with a glass top, mounted on the roof, and let the sun warm the water. I made it myself.”
“Great! You’ve gone green; nice to see you’re doing your part to save the planet.”
“Green? The heat from the sun kills all the algae. Humph. You’re a hard son of a bitch to impress.”
“No offense, but what was I supposed to be impressed with?”
“Electric fence, hot and cold running indoor water. I’ve even got a privy in the bedroom over there.”
“Good.” Jack raised one eyebrow as if to say ‘what?’ “That’s cool.”
“Cool? I think it’s slicker than snot on a glass doorknob, if you ask me! I made them all myself. Here, look at this.” Murphy walked to the wall where two bare wires ran up across the ceiling and over to an arc lamp. He flipped a toggle switch and turned on the light. It sparked, caught hold and lit the room with a smelly sulfuric glow.
He smiled smugly and wiggled both his eyebrows up and down at Jack.
“What?” Jack said exasperated. “Yes, you’re quite the inventor.”
“Actually, I’m a lawyer, but I’ve always been a tinkerer.” The old man squinted and examined Jack’s forehead. “Looks like you’ll live, a little dinged up, but passable,” Murphy said.
“A lawyer huh?” Jack looked around the house. A couple of board shelves held a few dishes, a pot, and some tin canisters that had been nailed to the wall. Jack saw no refrigerator or anything even resembling an icebox. “Why do you choose to live like this?”
Murphy looked around the room rather proudly, “Like what?” he asked defensively.
Jack felt bad and changed his tack. “Um, secluded.”
The smile left Murphy’s face and he looked away.
He’d pushed the old guy too far and he felt bad for it. The man may have been crazy, but he was harmless, and he meant well.
Murphy walked silently to the fireplace and stirred the heavy cooking pot. He seemed to stow himself after a while. “Here you go,” he said placing a plateful of something in front of Jack.
“What is this?” Jack asked.
“Hog and hominy,” Murphy said. His face finally cracked and he gave a slight smile as he set his own plate on the other side of the table. “It may be nigger food, but when you’re hungry, any food is good food. Get some of this in and you’ll be finer 'n frog hair and twice as fluffy.”
It tasted like a form of cream of wheat, with salty pork and chunks of garlic and crunchy leeks. It felt good to eat.
“You must be from New York,” Murphy finally got around to asking.
“Why do you say that?”
“The mighty strange way you’re dressed.”
Athletic shoes, jeans, a long-sleeved button-down shirt and a sport coat? Jack wondered what was so strange about it. He noticed the old man staring at his shoes.
“Don’t ever recall seeing curious footwear like that before.”
Jack thought, A pair of neon green Nike running shoes and this guy is amazed? But then the way this old dude was dressed and living in this shack in the middle of nowhere—thinking that his family was killed by Indians—no wonder a pair of sneakers astonished him!
After eating, Jack felt as though he was truly returning to himself. “So how do I get to Norfolk?” he asked.
“Follow Broad Creek around the top and save yourself a bunch of time by crossing on the railroad trestle.”
“You’re telling me that river out there is Broad Creek?”
“Sure as you’re born. Come on outside and I’ll show you the way.” They walked to the top of a small rise. Murphy said, “It’s about an hour’s walk. If you don’t have a hitch in your git-a-long.”
“An hour?”
“Probably more like two. Could be as long as four if you get lost, though. It's like a woman with a nosebleed—if it ain't one damn thing, it's another, I suppose.” Old Murphy laughed. I’m just foolin’ with you.”
"So if I walk at about three-and-a-half miles an hour, give or take, are you telling me that we're about three miles away from town?"
"Give or take, could be closer to five or six. See that line of trees out yonder and how they curve right?”
Jack squinted and saw what he was talking about. “Yeah.”
“Well, you’re looking for a path that curves left. It’s going to look like it’s taking you to the right, into the water, but don’t worry. You might see my electric tide generator there and know you’re on the right track. Follow the path and just before you get down to the eastern branch of the Elizabeth River, there’ll be the track for the Norfolk and Virginia railroad. Cross that span, follow the tracks and you’ll be in downtown Norfolk.”
"Even if we were ten miles away, we should be able to see the Bank of Hampton Roads building—it’s like thirty stories high."
Murphy laughed. "Seems to me you're the one with thirty stories. I don't know this Bank of Hampton Roads from nothing, not that I have much need for banking any more. The only bank I know of is the Sanger Brothers’ Bank."
Jack inwardly shook with frustration. This was getting him nowhere. He thought he would try one more time. "Is there a road anywhere around here, a paved road, maybe an expressway, someplace I could use a phone, get some help?"
Murphy eyed Jack and once again stroked his beard. "Son, I think you might still be disorien-tated from your recent calamity. Your life might be moving too fast. Just keep your head down, don’t look around too much, and perhaps a little fresh air on your walk will straighten your thoughts."
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Jack shrugged. “Life does move pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Murphy said, “That’s nice.”
“What’s nice?” Jack asked.
“That quote. Is it from Ralph Waldo Emerson?”
“No.” Jack smiled. “It’s from Ferris Bueller.” It was clear he’d get no further talking to the old man. “Thanks for all your hospitality, Mr. McCord.”
“It’s Murphy, and the pleasure was all mine. Stop by again and we’ll palaver some more.”
CHAPTER 4
Norfolk, VA
The line of trees swung right and followed what looked to be the river and he stayed left like the old man had said. Just as McCord had warned, the path he was on was appeared to be leading right to the water’s edge, but then it turned down along the river. A narrow path ran between a small body of water and the river. During high tide, this would flood, connecting the two bodies of water. As Jack walked, he sunk in muck nearly to his ankles. His neon green shoes were now a subdued brown. Then, in front of him, was the high train trestle and bridge. It looked mighty strange.
The bridge appeared strong and sturdy, but except for the rails, it was completely made of wood. It looked like new construction he remembered seeing one time at Pioneer Village in Busch Gardens. He climbed up onto the tracks.
Wait a minute! If this is Broad Creek and that’s the eastern branch of the Elizabeth River, right next to these tracks should be eight lanes of I-264. He turned around and looked toward the east and what should have been Military Highway but the tracks disappeared into thick woods. He turned to the west and, about a mile away, he could see another smaller bridge and a small village beyond that. This is completely wrong. This can’t be Broad Creek, that can’t be the Elizabeth River, and that certainly can’t be Norfolk.
He listened carefully for trains before starting across the twelve-hundred-foot span. I’d hate to get caught in the middle of this thing with a train coming.
The long river grass gave way to more closely cropped fields, fields where grazing animals fed. Out of this empty land, slapdash farmhouses rose up, surrounded by poorly kept barns and outbuildings, each of them like a gray wooden dagger plunged into the earth. Further from the river, pig yards, corn and cotton fields, dogs, sheep, and people populated more of his vision with every step he took. The people and homes looked like they were Amish. He saw a man with a horse-drawn plow turning over dirt on a small plot of land. He felt as if he were coming up on one of those towns like Williamsburg, which presented itself as an historical exhibit to lure in and “educate” tourists.
As he got closer, he could see rutted dirt streets and wooden sidewalks. Now it looked less like a tourist trap and more like an old portside town, from an old black-and-white movie on late-night TV. While small, the town was a flurry of activity. The smell of wood smoke and animal waste filled his nose; pigs, dogs, and children ran free. He thought his heart would stop as he approached a small wooden sign that proclaimed “Welcome to Norfolk, Virginia—a Seely Corporation City.” Was this some kind of joke? Or was it a movie set? What he’d thought were telephone or electrical poles were actually stamped “American Telegraph Company.”
He was in Norfolk, some out-of-time, weird-ass, Twilight-Zone version of the town he’d known all his life. Some of the street names he recognized, some not. There was an energetic bustle to the place.
He walked like a zombie through the streets, feeling sick to his stomach. Somehow, he understood this was neither a tourist village nor a movie set. This was something else entirely, something even stranger. He saw plenty of people but couldn’t bring himself to speak to anyone. They were all dressed in period clothing from the 1800s. He got more than a few strange looks. Widewater Street ran along the docks and a street in from the water was called Main. He angled up Main until he got to Market Square. The biggest building in Market Square was the Sanger Brothers’ Store.
He approached the dry goods store, and on a rack in the front was a copy of a newspaper called the Norfolk Daily Dispatch. His heart quaked when he read the headline: “Threat of War between the North and South.” The date on it was Monday, February 15, 1856.
He stumbled through the front door. The store looked like something out of an old photograph. There were aisles of over-stacked shelves filled with clothing, kitchenware, and canned goods—things Jack had never seen before outside of a museum. Smells of wool, pickle juice, woodsmoke, moldy cheese and leather goods assaulted him from every direction. The walls closed in on him; the room became dark and stuffy. He had to catch his balance. He leaned against a shelf. Bright sunlight blazed through the big front windows, but shadows seem to dominate amid the stacks of goods and the chaos of the interior.
The shopkeeper eyed him warily. He realized at once that coming in had been a mistake. He needed to leave, but he needed more to understand. He tripped into a display of tin cooking pots and sent them tumbling to the ground. After trying to right the fallen items, he gave up in frustration. He was more rattled than ever before in his life.
Ignoring the clerk, he made his way back to the street and found a bench in the town square. 1856! This is insane! What can I do? Who can I talk to? Time travel? Ridiculous!
Jack’s life was ruled by logic and there wasn’t a logical explanation for this situation. By this point he understood that a movie set or an elaborate prank were out of the question. Injury-induced dementia could be a real possibility though. He knew that severe blows to the head could cause changes in personality, emotions, and perception. The more he thought about it, the better this theory felt, but there was one part of this hypothesis that disturbed him. He knew that if the injury was not too severe, the symptoms could lessen over time. But they could also get worse.
Jack’s world was spinning. He sat on a bench and pulled out his iPhone. It was still in stand-by mode, but the power was now at seventy-five percent. Still no signal or carrier, but he had an app called “iTriage” that had medical information contained in the software; no need to connect to the Internet. The program had been created by two emergency room physicians to help people answer the medical questions “What might I have?” and “What kind of treatment do I need?”
He glanced both ways and, seeing no one in his vicinity, he opened the program. He typed in “head injury.” It turned out that, according to iTriage, each head injury was different and the trauma’s effect depended on the location of the injury, its severity, the age, health, and even the personality of the victim. A blow to his forehead might have caused a sudden jarring of brain tissue against his skull and the tearing of nerves, blood vessels, and membranes could cause prolonged or permanent declines in his cognition. Some symptoms appeared rapidly, while others could take weeks to manifest. Some symptoms included problems thinking clearly, poor concentration, mood swings, irritability, aggression, and or apathy.
Hell, I had those symptoms before the accident.
The program stressed that the appearance of any of these symptoms should be considered serious and that medical attention was immediately advised. Things like bleeding, bruising, and fluid collection were life-threatening. There was no self-test he could do this side of a CT scan, MRI or SPECT test, and certainly none with just an iPhone.
He closed the program and, this time, shut down his phone completely to save what battery life he had. He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but somehow he didn’t feel like the blow to his head was truly that serious. He’d had a concussion before, after a spill on a motorcycle, and that had felt completely different—worse. Where does that leave me, then, for an explanation? Back to the time travel theory?
He knew that time travel did not violate any known theories of physics. Even Stephen Hawking had noted that time travel might be possible with the use of wormholes warped in the correct way. But that was only for travel into the future. Most in the scientific community thought backwards time travel was highly unlikely. Still, the theory of general relativ
ity didn’t rule out time travel into the past. Quantum effects would be like moving through different points in space. In theory, a wormhole in curved space could connect two separate times and allow passage between them. It was believed that the amount of raw energy necessary to make this leap was, at best, impractical. But what about the lightning from that thunderstorm?
If this is some sort of time travel phenomenon, Jack wondered, how do I get back? His world was suddenly out of control. Slow down, think. He felt nauseous. No wonder Murphy had been so weird. No wonder he thought I was so strange. Am I trying to believe in time travel because I’m afraid of the alternative—that I’m crazy and this is some kind of psychosis? His mind was whirling and the wound on his forehead throbbed with pain. I just need to think. This can’t be real! He put his head in his hands and blacked out.
CHAPTER 5
February 15, 1856
A Job and a Bed
Jack was awakened by a tap on the shoulder from a man who looked like a Keystone Cop. He wore a dark blue frock coat with matching trousers, a tarnished silver badge and a glazed cap. He was carrying a hard wooden baton and had a holstered revolver belted around his middle. He continued to poke Jack with the baton while his other hand rested on the butt of the gun.
Jack tried not to stare at the man’s strange uniform. If this is a dream, I’m not waking up. Somehow, I’m still here. The man looked uneasy and suspicious. Jack had the wherewithal to know that he’d better calm him down. “Is there a problem, sir?” Jack asked. His voice was shaky.
“Pete Snider over at the dry goods store said you looked like you were hurt or drunk. Is there something I should know about?”
“No, sir. I just got to town a bit ago.”
“Trouble on the road?” he asked gesturing at the blood on Jack’s shirt. The deputy still looked apprehensive.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Highwaymen?”