A middle-aged man walked in the medical office carrying a picnic-type basket. He sat on the chair across from the cot and lowered the basket to the floor. An august man with a calm demeanor, he crossed his legs at the ankle and grinned as he looked at Lydia.
She sat at her desk writing and had not acknowledged the man’s entrance until he spoke.
“Lydia?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She smiled and gave the man her attention. “Hello, Father. How was church?”
“Just fine.” He folded his hands in his lap and sent her a paternal look. “I visited the Fosters after the service. Roseanna sent plenty of food home with me.” He motioned to the basket on the floor. “I thought I might share some with your patient. Aunt Isabella is waiting for you in the kitchen. She was told you have been treating a wounded traveler and will join her for dinner.” He began to take food out of the basket without waiting for Lydia’s response.
Connor sat up slowly and expected someone to protest his movement. When they didn’t, he felt less like a prisoner. Lydia stood and straightened the papers on her desk then left. She was her village’s physician and this was her home, but her father was clearly in charge.
Once Connor was alone with Lydia’s father, he wondered why the man wanted Lydia to leave. Her father looked like an older version of Levi, but with blue eyes, a trimmed beard, and gray at his temples. He also seemed less threatened.
“I am John Colburn, Lydia’s father.” He unwrapped their dinner. “I am the overseer of Good Springs. What is your name, son?”
“Connor Bradshaw, sir.”
“Levi told me you are a warrior.” John handed him a large sandwich of meat between slices of artisan-quality bread. “What army?”
“Unified States Navy, sir.” Connor took a bite. He was too hungry to pretend otherwise. The bread was fresh and soft; the meat was tender and flavorful but not a taste he immediately recognized. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“No, Connor, you are not a prisoner.” John scratched his bearded cheek. “Lydia saw you arrive on the beach last night. She came to her brother and me for help so she could bring you here and treat your injuries. No one else in the village knows about you, and since we have never had an… outsider such as yourself, I prefer to have an explanation before the villagers start asking questions. You are not a prisoner, but I believe it is best for everyone if you stay here for now.”
Connor nodded. The room was small and he hated feeling like a shut-in, but the last thing he wanted was to have curious villagers poking sticks at him. He took another bite and studied John while he ate.
He had no reason to doubt the man. John appeared to be forthright. Connor recognized John’s authority and appreciated it.
“I assume you are obligated to return to your army.” John paused as though he expected Connor to fill him in on the details, but Connor kept silent. He ate without speaking another word. John did not push him for answers, and it increased Connor’s respect for him.
Connor decided he would stay in Lydia’s cottage until he healed—which Lydia had said would only be a couple of days because of their medicine. And John was correct: Connor was obligated to find a way back. He would use his downtime to plan his return to his squadron.
He took a drink of water, and John refilled his glass from a ceramic pitcher. Connor looked down at the pure, precious water. It was a good place to start. “Where did this water come from?”
John swallowed his last bite then brushed the crumbs from his hands. He looked at the water pitcher then back at Connor. “Our well.” He arched one eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with the water?”
“No. It’s perfect.”
How could people who behaved generously and courteously live as if the biggest problem facing all of humanity had no effect on them? Connor raised the glass. “Most of the world is engaged in a deadly war because there is not enough of this. And somehow I am sitting here drinking glass after glass of it.”
“It is water. I cannot imagine a world at war over a lack of water. The wells, springs, and lakes in the Land are full of fresh water. Our largest river flows deep and pure a matter of miles inland from Good Springs.” John gazed at the water in his glass. “Which nation is without water?”
These people had no idea what was happening in the rest of the world. Somehow they really were isolated from civilization. But just how isolated? “Which nations are near Good Springs?”
John cleared his throat. “Good Springs is a village in the Land. Our founders brought a few maps and books of world history with them when they settled here, so we are familiar with other nations, but our people have not had contact with an outside nation since the founders left America. That was a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“The founders arrived here in March of eighteen sixty-one.”
Connor found himself caught not only by John’s gaze, but also by the intensity of what he said. This man was no enemy and could perhaps even become an ally. Connor considered the possibility of a completely isolated society hidden from the modern world. He pulled his focus away from John and surveyed the room. The beauty of craftsmanship and old-world artistry was evident in everything. Most of the objects in the room looked antiquated, yet they were pristine and still in use.
John Colburn was the leader of his community, and a protective one. If Lydia was any indication of the rest of their village, Connor agreed they had something worth protecting. During the war he had watched every nation react—many with violence—to the water shortage that affected the human race. These people had no idea what was in store if the world learned of their unspoiled resources. The global powers would act here as they had elsewhere—the strong would invade and the weak would sabotage.
Thoughts of his squadron, his weapons system officer, and their mission flooded his mind. Whether or not he agreed with every position of his country’s leadership, he had taken an oath of allegiance. And like everyone else in the war, in addition to his duties as an aviator, he had standing orders to report any potential resource.
As an experienced and professional aviator, he trusted his clear head and controlled decisions. He frequently had to squelch his opinions to carry out missions. This situation was different, and a rush of emotion inundated his mind. Overwhelmed with concern for John and Lydia and their village, his vision swayed. He touched his forehead with his fingertips and felt a lump where his head injury swelled.
“It looks better than it did last night,” John said while he looked at Connor’s head.
“Huh?” Connor grunted. “Oh, yeah. Lydia said I have a concussion.”
“You need to rest. The gray leaf provides quick and painless healing, but the body requires rest.” John dropped his napkin into the food basket and gathered up what was left of their dinner. He set the water jug on the side table next to the patient cot. “Drink all you want. We have plenty… for now.”
The heels of John’s boots thumped the floor as he walked to the door. He stopped at the window and peeled back the curtain. “Connor?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I believe it is best that you and I keep these details private for now. My people are not prepared for a world at war… though I suppose no one ever is.”
“Yes, sir.” He understood and also needed time to think. But Lydia was curious from witnessing his arrival. She wanted an explanation. “Your daughter… she has questions, sir.”
John nodded. “When she asks them, tell her to speak to me.”
* * *
Sweat beaded across Connor’s forehead. He panted as he sat straight up, trembling. His eyes shot open and he searched the space around him with frantic dread.
It was dark. He was in the medical office in the physician’s house in a village called Good Springs on an unnamed land in an unspecified location in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean.
The abject feeling from the nightmare saturated Connor’s mind. In the dream, the world’s end approached, and he was
surrounded by chaos and fire. Then a limpid stream in a lush, green forest appeared in the distance. As he walked to the stream, the noise of the battle lessened, as did the stench of burning flesh. He knelt on the stream’s bank and watched water run pure and clear across his fingers. Cupping his hands, he brought the fresh water to his lips. As he began to drink it, the sounds and scents of the battle erupted again. The water in his hands turned to ash.
The shift from feeling like the world was ending to feeling like he was at the end of the earth left his mind reeling. He shoved the wool blanket away from his sweaty body and moved his feet to the cool floor. Poised on the edge of the cot, he wiped his face with his hands and felt the smooth flesh where a lump had once protruded from his forehead.
The wound was gone.
He touched his ribs. They too felt normal. The tea Lydia had given him seemed to be more miraculous than medicinal. Now that he was healed, he was tired of sleeping, tired of wondering, and tired of being stuck inside four walls. He had to get some fresh air and hopefully some answers.
He rose and walked to the window. Moonlight illumined the space around the cottage and revealed a quaint country yard. He grabbed his flight jacket from the back of a chair, but his boots were nowhere to be found. After sliding his bare arms inside the jacket’s sleeves, he shrugged it over his shoulders and stepped to the door. Before he opened it, he looked up the stairs to make sure Lydia’s door was still closed.
Once outside, he shut the door as quietly as he could. Lydia’s home was a matter of feet from the back of another house. By the size of the structure—and the fact that her home did not appear to have a kitchen—he assumed it was her father’s house. No wonder her family seemed ever-present. They lived next door.
The crisp air carried the scent of the nearby ocean. He zipped his jacket and stood facing the big house. The grass crunched under his bare feet as he followed a path away from Lydia’s cottage to an unpaved road. The road’s surface was a mixture of smooth gravel, sand, and shells. It was barely wide enough for one car. There were no streetlights over the road or lights anywhere around the house.
As he glanced back at the cottage, the sound of a cow’s moo confirmed the rural nature of Good Springs. He wasn’t as concerned with the village’s topography as he was with its location. He buried his hands in his pockets and leaned his head back to take in the stars. He knew them well and—even though the aircraft he routinely flew navigated by far superior technology—he was confident he could fly from one continent to another by the stars alone. Something wasn’t right.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes then he looked up again. At first he thought the concussion was interfering with his vision. Then he scanned the ground, the yard, and the houses. There was nothing wrong with his eyes. Something was wrong with the sky. The stars appeared to be spread farther than they actually were, and the full moon looked oblong rather than round.
Maybe he was still dreaming or maybe in a coma and none of this had ever happened. He walked back to Lydia’s cottage and decided her father was right: it was best if he stayed in the medical office until they understood how he had come to this uncharted land.
Chapter Four
As Lydia opened her eyes, her first thought was of Connor. She rolled onto her back and pushed the bedcovers away from her face. The early light glowed through the curtains of her bedroom window. She wanted to snuggle back under the warm quilt, but her concern for Connor impelled her from her languor.
When she had checked on Connor during the night, her presence in the room startled him. She envisioned the mixture of fear and fury that had lit his eyes and made him look dangerous. Though he had quickly calmed himself—and even apologized for his violent reaction—Lydia was worried about him. He was lost in a foreign land, so she expected him to be restless, but she sensed there were complications beyond her imagination.
The cottage was quiet. Connor was probably still asleep downstairs. She dressed and gathered her laundry to take to the main house. Her father had said they would expand her cottage into a home someday, but she was fine with it the way it was. She liked going into the family home throughout the day. She enjoyed sharing meals with her family and spending time with Isabella while her father and Levi were working and Bethany was at school.
She unlatched the lock that Levi had installed on her bedroom door the day before. Levi had marched up her stairs and started hammering without an explanation, and she had been too tired to request one. Levi had always been protective of Lydia and Bethany, especially since they lost their mother. Though only a twelve-year-old boy when their mother died, Levi had immediately armed himself with the notion of manhood. Adeline and Maggie were now both married and lived under the protection of their husbands, but Levi guarded Lydia and Bethany as if they were his charges. She understood his intentions and had used the lock just as he had shown her.
As she descended the stairs, Connor lay prone on the medical office floor. His arms were spread out to each side and, with his hands firmly planted, he pushed his shirtless body away from the floor. He paused and then lowered himself back down. He repeated the motion over and over.
She slowed her pace when she saw his motions were deliberate. He let out his breath and sprang to his feet with a blast of energy.
She was not sure what to do. The spectacle left her grinning.
“What? Don’t you people work out?” Connor quipped, as he rubbed a palm across his bare chest.
“Work out what?” She was still smiling and forced herself to look away.
He didn’t seem to notice when she immediately looked back at him. He sat on the floor, put both hands behind his head, and lowered his back to the ground. With his legs bent at the knee, he contracted his abdominal muscles and sat up, and then he lowered his body back down. He repeated the motion dozens of times and gushed out a breath each time he sat up.
She lingered on the stairs with her arms wrapped around the bundle of laundry. When she realized she was staring at the clear definition of his well-trained muscles, she forced her gaze to return to his face. “I take it you are feeling better?”
Connor forcibly exhaled. “Just perfect.” He didn’t break his rhythm but continued to sit up, lie back, and sit up again. “Thanks, Doc.”
She nodded, speechless, then stepped out the cottage door and walked along the dew-covered path to the main house. After brushing a spider’s web out of the way, she opened the door.
Her father was walking into the kitchen from the parlor. John wore work clothes and smiled at her as he lifted his suspenders over his shoulders. “Morning, Lydia.”
“Good morning, Father.”
“How is your patient today?” John walked to the sink, filled a kettle with water, and set it on the stove with a clank.
With the image of Connor exercising still fresh in her mind, Lydia grinned. She walked to the back of the kitchen and dumped the laundry bundle by a washtub. “I believe he has fully recovered.”
She picked up a basket for gathering eggs and went to the linen closet to get a clean cloth to line the basket. Along the bottom shelf of the closet were stacks of old clothes and fabric scraps awaiting other uses. Her mother used to call it the rag pile. There in the rag pile she saw the trousers Mrs. Ashton had made for Levi. Lydia ducked her head out of the closet and held the pants up. “Another miscalculation?”
“Too slim and six inches too long for Levi. Mrs. Ashton makes you all clothes as if you were still growing. They could be altered; however, Levi could not bring himself to tell her.”
“I’ll take them to Connor.”
“No, I will take them to him in a moment.” John held out his hand.
Lydia tossed the pants across the kitchen to him and he caught them with one hand. He stood at the stove while the coffee brewed, then filled two cups with the steaming beverage. With the trousers tucked under his elbow, he carried a cup of coffee in each hand and walked out the back door toward the cottage.
* * *
&n
bsp; Connor stood from the floor, satisfied his ribs appeared to be healed and his strength had returned. When Lydia left the cottage, he pulled on his t-shirt and took the opportunity to search the medical office. He hoped to find some clues as to where this land was and how he might return to his squadron.
At Lydia’s desk, Connor lifted the grayish papers she had written on the day before. Her neat and uniform handwriting looked more like some old colonial style than modern American penmanship. The paper she used was thick and rough. A pen and ink well, both made of silver, sat next to an oil lantern at the corner of her desk.
He lifted the lantern and smelled the fuel. It had a pungent scent he didn’t recognize. He sat in her chair, opened the drawer on the right side of the desk, and found a tidy stack of paper that appeared to be her detailed patient charts.
After closing the drawer, Connor checked the window and opened the drawer on the left side of the desk. Expecting to find it just as logical as the rest of Lydia’s office, Connor gulped at the drawer’s chaotic contents: broken seashells, a bound braid of horsehair, and seed pods were mixed with crumpled scraps of paper. He promptly closed the drawer.
The back of her desk was pushed against the wall by the staircase. The balusters were painted white and climbed two per stair up to her private rooms. He stood and looked up the stairs but saw only a closed door at the top of the landing. Curiosity tempted him to ascend the steps, but it stemmed from his personal interest and had nothing to do with his mission.
He moved away from the desk and examined the contents of a narrow bookcase. The shelves were filled with neatly arranged knickknacks, but only a few old books. At first he thought the lack of books was peculiar for a doctor’s office, but then his hand felt his ribs—completely healed in two days. There were probably more differences in their healthcare methods than similarities.
The Land Uncharted (The Uncharted Series Book 1) Page 5