Journeyman

by Mark J Rose

  “You need to swallow it,” Matt said. “Try again.” Will put the wet tablet back in his mouth, filled it with water, and swallowed. This time it went down and he opened his mouth to show Matt it was empty.

  “One to go,” Matt declared. The second tablet went down easier.

  “Now what?”

  “You feel less sore within the next half hour,” Matt said. “You sleep well, and you feel better in the morning.”

  “This medicine pledges much,” Will replied.

  “Let me know whether you think it worked,” Matt said knowingly. He considered ibuprofen one of the greatest drugs of the twentieth century. Aside from his academic appreciation of the drug and its discovery, he had often used it after sparring sessions in tae kwon do. As Matt finished with Will, it occurred to him that people here might especially prize ibuprofen since most people did manual labor that was guaranteed to make them tired and sore.

  Matt said good night and headed to his barn. He crawled into bed and closed his eyes, but sleep would not come as his conversation with Charles raced through his head. I’m only a farmhand here. Matt sat up, reached to his jacket beside the bed, pulled out his phone, and turned it on to listen to music. It wasn’t much longer when he heard the familiar scratching at the door. He rearranged the covers so the dog couldn’t steal them and got up to open the door.

  “Hello, killer,” he said. The dog wandered in, jumped on his blankets at the foot of the bed, put his head down, and closed his eyes. “That’s probably a good idea,” Matt said, but before he could reach his phone to turn it off, it beeped. The dog’s ears shot up and his eyes opened wide. Matt picked up the phone and saw a text message on the screen.

  “Matthew Miller, are you there?” it read.

  “This can’t be,” Matt said to the dog.

  Matt typed, “Who are you?”

  “Oak Ridge Laboratories. Can you tell us your exact date and time?”

  Matt pulled out his watch, then typed, “August 2, 1762, 9:40 p.m.”

  “Thanks. Any contact with the others?”

  Matt typed, “What others?”

  “Time travelers, like you.”

  Matt typed, “No one else. How did I get here?”

  “Reactor accident caused a wormhole. Will text again in exactly twenty-four hours.”

  “Can you get me home?”

  “Soon.”

  “When?”

  There was no reply.

  “Dog,” Matt declared, “I’m going home.”

  14

  Lasting Impressions

  Matt slid helplessly into the open pit and tried desperately to hang on by clinging to dirt, rocks, and vines. He watched in horror as the flesh was pulled from his hands by everything he tried to grab. Blood covered his fingers and the wet slipperiness accelerated his descent into the hole. The sides of the hole collapsed and disappeared, and he was falling into open space towards a black abyss that had formed below. He flailed, trying to right his body, hoping he could at least fall to his death feet first.

  As he righted himself in his fall, he was able to focus and become calm as he resigned himself to die. The walls were suddenly back and rushing by, coming alive with moving pictures of events and people. Most were shadows, but he recognized a few and many of these were tethered to other shadows by glowing tunnels of light. He passed by as the space shuttle exploded in the blue sky. Connected to another tunnel, he could see shadows of American soldiers with machine guns wandering through a jungle. He saw the Beatles on a platform, the entire stadium screaming as John Lennon swept his elbows back and forth across a keyboard. There were smokestacks as an industrialized America rebuilt Europe devastated by war. These images yanked past him and were distorted by a vision of torches of marching men at Nuremberg.

  He looked down at his feet and realized that he was no longer falling into an abyss; there was form now. He was plummeting towards dirt and ground and could see his death approaching. The closer he came to the surface, the more the wind buffeted his body as he fell, and he began to oscillate in the wind and hear booming. Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! It became deafening and he resigned himself to his fate.

  *********

  Matt opened his eyes. He looked up into the darkness. He was no longer falling into the hole. He heard the sound of a fist on wood, bam, bam, bam, and then, “Mr. Miller, are you awake?” Then again, “Are you awake?”

  “I’m awake,” he called back, trying to remember where he was. He sat up and looked at the windows. I’m in the hay barn.

  Matt stood up slowly in the dark, pulled his pants on, and let himself out of the barn to find the privy. He could hear and see activity on the farm as it began to wake, and the smells of smoke and cooking food were heavy in the air. Despite the ibuprofen, his upper body was sore from swinging, chopping, and spearing. He knew it would’ve been worse without the drugs. His hands were sore, but he was happy to see that he had no blisters. The throbbing in his head was milder today, but he still needed to reach up and massage his temples. Now that he knew what had brought him here, he understood that the headaches were a side effect of falling through a wormhole.

  From the privy, he walked back to the barn and slid the door open. The dog opened his eyes, jumped off the bed, and skirted out, almost tripping Matt in the process. “Where are you going?” Matt called out, but the dog didn’t turn back. Matt reached for his phone to see if he had somehow dreamed the messages, but the text trail appeared on the screen. It would not be long before they rescued him and he was back in his own time. He considered it for a moment and decided to leave as good an impression on these farm people as he could. He would work hard the next few days to help them harvest their fields. The idea of being remembered across centuries was fascinating. Even the stunning Grace Taylor might regret not taking the opportunity to get to know him better once he disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived.

  Matt grabbed his pack and the washbasin and with a revitalized vigor walked out to the well. The water seemed colder this morning, and the washcloth was especially coarse as he rubbed it on his face. He felt his chin and noted that it was rough, but he didn’t think he had time to shave. He pulled out the toothbrush and the plastic tube of toothpaste.

  “Good morning, Mr. Miller,” Jonathan said.

  Matt spat his toothpaste out onto the ground and said, “How are you doing today, John?”

  “’Tis Jonathan.” He said it in a way that Matt knew wasn’t meant to offend.

  “Sorry. How are you doing today, Jonathan?”

  The boy was quiet for longer than a moment, and Matt could see he was thinking hard. “I’m fine, though I’m tired from moving the tobacco into the drying house yesterday.” He was watching Matt as he was brushing his teeth. “Can I try the toothbrush?”

  Matt rinsed his mouth. “Jonathan, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Sharing toothbrushes spreads germs.”

  “What are germs?”

  “The things people pass around that make you sick. You know how sometimes you get sick from being around someone else who’s sick?”

  “Sure, Mother warns us all the time,” the boy answered. He looked Matt up and down and asked, “Mr. Miller, are you ill?”

  The temptation floated through his head, but Matt didn’t have it in him to lie. “No, I’m not ill.”

  “Good,” the boy said, excited. “I’m not ill, either.” He thought for a moment and said, “Does that mean that I can try the brush?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said, resigned. The boy looked at him in anticipation.

  “You can try it this once,” Matt said. He rinsed the brush and shook it out onto the ground, then squeezed out a generous dollop of toothpaste onto the bristles and handed it to Jonathan. The boy took it gently, careful not to lose any of the toothpaste.

  “There you are,” Matt said. “Brush away.”

  Jonathan put the brush up to his mouth. “How do I do it?”

  “You put it all the way in your mouth and
brush back and forth,” Matt said. “It should rub on your teeth like this.” He used his finger to demonstrate on his own teeth.

  Jonathan put the brush in his mouth and moved it around, but still wasn’t doing it right. “Let me show you,” Matt said. He gently took the brush from the boy. “Open your mouth.” Jonathan opened and Matt brushed his back teeth, demonstrating the motion. “Okay, now spit out the suds.” Jonathan spat the toothpaste onto the ground as he had seen Matt do. “Give me a big smile,” Matt said. Jonathan smiled, and Matt showed him how to brush his front teeth. “Now you try.” Matt gave him back the brush. This time Jonathan did a credible job.

  “That should do it for now,” Matt declared. “Rinse your mouth with water and don’t swallow.” Jonathan handed the dripping brush back to Matt while he grabbed a cup of water and rinsed his mouth.

  “My mouth feels cold,” Jonathan said. He whistled as he inhaled quickly.

  “Refreshing, right?”

  “Refreshing,” Jonathan replied as he winked. “And the ladies love a man with fresh breath.”

  “I was joking about that,” Matt said. “That would probably not be something to repeat in front of your mother.”

  The boy smiled. “We should go,” he said. “Breakfast is ready.” Jonathan turned around and headed to the common. Matt could hear him whistling as he sucked air through his mouth and then exclaimed, “Refreshing!”

  Matt thought that even in the twenty-first century it was hard to beat mint-lime-flavored toothpaste. He cleaned up his pack, took it back into the barn, put it into a storage cabinet and covered it with an old blanket he had found in the barn. Matt entered the common as most of the men were already finishing their food. Kid made me late. Matt hurried to fill his plate and sat across from Will, who was nearly finished.

  “That medicine you gave me worked,” Will proclaimed. “I slept like a log.”

  “Ibuprofen is good stuff,” Matt replied.

  “What plant is it from?” Will asked.

  Matt thought for a moment to get it right. Most if not all medicines familiar to the American colonists came from plants. Unlike aspirin, which had its origin in natural product chemistry, ibuprofen was a product of man’s ingenuity more than a fortuitous discovery. The precursor of aspirin, on the other hand, salicylic acid, came from the bark of the willow tree. Willow tree bark had been used to relieve headaches and pain since before the birth of Christ, but in its natural form was very hard on the stomach. To synthesize aspirin, salicylic acid was modified using acetyl chloride or acetic anhydride to change a hydroxyl group into an ester. Matt could see the synthetic route in his head.

  “It’s from the willow tree,” Matt said. It wasn’t exactly true of ibuprofen, but aspirin was close enough.

  “The apothecary sells willow bark,” Will said, “but this didn’t make me ill. I may desire more after today.”

  “What’s today?”

  “We’re turning the hay. After it dries, we’ll gather it into wagons and bring it home.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad,” Matt said.

  “More lifting,” Will replied. “The hay must be out of the fields before the rain.”

  “Rain?” Matt asked, looking up into a clear blue sky.

  “Uncle says rain.”

  “How does he know?” Matt asked, now wondering what people did before The Weather Channel.

  “He can feel it in his bones,” Will explained. “We jest, but he’s usually correct.”

  “We better work fast, then,” Matt replied as he finished the last of his coffee. He breathed in deeply, taking in the freshness of his surroundings before standing to return his plate.

  When they got to the field, Matt was assigned again to the center, but today he kept up easily with the rest of the group. Now he could sharpen his blade as quickly as the others, which helped him swing the scythe more efficiently. They finished mowing the new field and then spread the hay using pitchforks to help it dry. There was a ten-minute break before they proceeded to the north hayfield and turned the hay they’d cut the previous day. As Will had said, this didn’t take much skill, but it was backbreaking. They finished turning by midmorning, and were taking their break as the lunch truck rolled up.

  Matt was one of the last to receive his meal. Grace placed a big chunk of bread on Matt’s plate and he thanked her politely. “You’re welcome, Mr. Miller,” she said. He had already turned away to go back to his bench when she called, “Are you getting a feel for farming?” Matt turned around to face her. She hadn’t spoken directly to him since the first day they’d met. Even when they talked after church, Grace had seemed to be speaking mainly for the benefit of the churchyard.

  “I’m getting good with the scythe,” Matt answered. “I’m tired from yesterday, though.”

  “All the men are tired after the first day,” she said, “even the experienced ones.”

  “Some more than others,” Matt replied. He raised his hand to his mouth and faked a yawn. Grace smiled and held his gaze for longer than usual, then returned to cutting the bread. Matt stood there watching her hands move.

  Seeing him standing there, Mary stepped over with a pensive look on her face and asked, “Is there anything else, Mr. Miller?”

  Matt caught himself and answered, “Oh, no, thanks.” He gathered his wits and walked away, but not before noticing Grace eyeing him with a sly smile.

  After lunch, they shuttled the wagon to the tobacco fields, where the men were able to harvest another third of the field before midafternoon. While they worked, David and Thomas arrived with another empty wagon. They stopped to inspect the full wagons and Matt overheard David say, “I have never seen leaf this green.”

  “We may make a profit after all,” Thomas replied. “God willing.”

  “God willing,” David repeated.

  Thomas gathered the crew’s attention. “We expect rain within two days,” he said, “so we must fit five days of harvest into four. We shall sup in the fields, take shorter rests, and work until sundown. Let us meet this trial so you can return to town for the Sabbath one day early and with a full week’s pay.”

  The sun was low in the sky as they arrived back at the farm. Charles and Thomas moved their wagons to the pavilion and Matt’s team joined the others, who were already unloading their wagons. The hay was being stacked under the roof of a pavilion built to protect the harvest from rain and snow. The bales were much easier to unload than to carry out of the fields, so it didn’t take long.

  Matt wasn’t sure how the division of labor developed, but he found himself acting as haystack organizer. He took the bales from the men as they were unloaded and placed them on the stack. If done incorrectly, it would topple when it was about chest high. Matt found that if he did it right, he could stack hay almost up to the bottom of the pavilion roof. He had to pull a bunch of stacked bales to reset them properly and it took him another twenty minutes before he could add more. He lost himself in this and the sun was gone by the time he finished.

  He stepped back after he was done and gazed at the tight stack, proud of his handiwork. It wasn’t until he was completely done that he noticed that he was alone in the middle of the stacks. He sat there for a time with his two lanterns, enjoying the quiet, then got back on his feet. He was covered in hay dust, so he headed to the horse barn with a lantern in each hand to see if he could find a broom.

  Another lantern was burning in the barn, so he expected to see someone, but found it empty. He grabbed a broom and started to sweep the dust from his clothes. His shoes cleaned easily, as did the bottom half of his legs. By holding the head of the broom with his hands, he was able to brush his chest and most of his front, and then he had to contort his body to try to reach his back. The back brushing didn’t go well, so he gave up. He grabbed the middle of the broom and started on his legs, but as he was brushing, the broom shifted in his hand and smacked him in the eye, bringing his headache back immediately.

  “Bastard!” he said, throwing the broom
to the ground.

  “Such language,” Grace said, peering out from a horse stall. She laughed when she saw Matt standing with the broom at his feet, rubbing his eye. Matt hoped she hadn’t witnessed his whole tantrum.

  “Are you trying to brush yourself off with a long broom?”

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “Cursing the floor,” Grace replied. “There are hand brooms over in the closet.” She ducked back into the stall before he could regain his dignity. He walked to the closet, pulled out a hand broom, and started to brush himself again.

  “Let me know when your back should be done,” Grace called.

  “Thanks,” Matt said indignantly. He spent the next few minutes brushing with no intention of asking for help. Despite his silence, he heard the latch to the stall open and saw Grace step out. Her dress was wet.

  She picked up the long broom. “Turn around,” she commanded.

  “I can do it.”

  “Turn around,” she repeated.

  “Fine.”

  She swatted at him fast and hard and he could see the dust in the air as it left him. “Were you able to sweep any off?” she asked as she brushed.

  “There was no one around when I was done stacking hay.”

  “It’s done,” she said. “You’re clean.”

  Matt turned around to look at her. Her face was gorgeous in the lamplight. He had to force himself to speak. “Are you working on Joshua?”

  “Yes. I clean him in the evening and apply the apothecary ointment.”

  “Is it working?”

  “No.”

  “Can I see him? Maybe there’s something I can do.”

  “I don’t think you can add any more experience than Uncle or Father.”

  “I thought that you weren’t happy with what they suggested,” he replied.

  “I desire more,” she said, “but no one knows horses better.”

  “I’m an apothecary, right?”

  “But you know nothing of horses.”

  “Grace, let me see the horse.”

  She turned toward Joshua’s stall and Matt followed. Joshua was a light brown stallion with a dark brown mane, similar in size to Shadow, but not nearly as muscular. Matt grabbed the lantern, walked into the stall and stepped close to the horse. Joshua had an infection on his back, which looked to have started under his saddle line. There were spots where the hair was falling out and scabs where the sores had started to bleed. The horse had a severe fungal infection that was being made worse by opportunistic bacterial infections.