by J.P Jackson
*
Taylor was somewhere else, dry and flat on his back. The sound of the man's breathing and the smell of his body odor stuck in Taylor's mind, along with the vague memory of being carried by his large, calloused hands. Shadows simultaneously stretched and shrunk in his vision, nothing tangible, but an improvement nonetheless. His right leg, flesh bloodied and torn, brought on a fever and his sweat soaked the straw mattress beneath him. It was impossible to say how long he lay on that bed, but the sound of his guardian's deep and comforting breathing was always close by.
Time travel had disrupted Taylor's biological rhythms, confounding any sense of time and space. The world's first time traveller was suffering the world's worst case of jet-lag.
Days passed, weeks maybe. Taylor heard footsteps come and go, unusual voices, incoherent dialects. They murmured over him and touched his flesh as if to prove something to themselves.
Animal skins kept him warm and murky, yet drinkable water, kept him hydrated. His ankle, as far as he could tell, had been bandaged and raised. Despite his mental fog, Taylor was quietly impressed.
He was occasionally awoken by raging fits, but his guardian was there to hold him down. The one thing Taylor needed was time, time to recover, time to get his bearings, time to get used to time travel.
Shadows formed structures, the most prominent being his guardian, standing like a giant in the corner. One morning, afternoon or evening, his guardian propped his substantial weight onto Taylor's straw bed and mumbled a prayer of some kind. At the conclusion of that prayer, the guardian rubbed Taylor's chest then pressed a gift into his left hand.
"Garka!" his guardian announced. “Garka!”
Taylor fondled the gift through his fingers, sensing a sharp tooth strung onto a necklace. He chuckled back, only to grimace at a pain in his ribs. Still he smiled, relieved to finally understand.
"Crocodile!" he exclaimed, holding back enthusiasm to spare himself further discomfort. "I understand it. You got him."
Taylor raised his head to hang the token around his neck, and his guardian clapped and cheered like an infant. His infectious and heart-warming spirit forced another giggle, then grimace from Taylor.
His vision returned as the days blurred together. The room had a narrow window with a clear view of the blue sky and yellow sun. It was a primitive shelter made of reddish clay, designed to be cool in summer and warm in winter. The barrier to the next room was a flimsy piece of wood, and Taylor frequently heard indecipherable conversations beyond it. He wanted to part the door and introduce himself, but discretion and a swollen ankle kept him bed bound.
The walls around him were decorated with charcoal images, depicting brave hunters spearing crocodiles and bear-like beasts. Most of the room was taken up by large sacks stacked under the window. The sacks were fat and overflowing with pale grey seeds. With little more to go on, Taylor drank the water at his bedside table and swirled the sediment left at the bottom of the clay cup.
He was naked underneath the blanket and couldn't see his jeans or shirt, but was delighted to find his cock and balls both present and accounted for. After wiping the grainy water from his chin, he lifted his right arm to examine the torch.
The gauge sat at 1%. Not enough to go anywhere. The display appeared operational but when Taylor tried to summon details of his current location, he was greeted by an unfathomable number combining latitude, longitude, celestial coordinates and Earth's axial tilt. He scratched his temple and cursed himself. If only he hadn't screwed with Lanza's coordinates, if only he hadn't been so cocky, so drunk, so himself.
“You fucked up,” he growled. “Daft bastard.”
Frustration getting the better of him, he pounded his torch against the table. His brief vent caused a glow to stir from the device, a subtle glimmer that grew like a vine over his right arm. Taylor's heart pounded.
"The apple," he whispered, recalling Lanza's fruit, glowing with an inner light before blowing up in his face. No pain accompanied the light, but the unnatural effect was panic inducing. Taylor bounced out of bed to get a hold of himself and his potential time bomb, but excruciating pain on his ankle caused him to stumble against the seed sacks.
Suddenly the door flung open. Standing in the doorway was the largest man Taylor had ever seen. His guardian was bald and dark skinned, with innocent features and a loin cloth covering his genitals. He bent, wrapped his trunk-like arms around Taylor and picked him up like a doll. After assisting the still glowing time traveller to the bed, the giant held his hand over Taylor's racing heart. The guardian closed his eyes and Taylor calmed his breathing. Deep inhales and soothing exhales, one after the other, in and out, causing the light to dim, and fade.
The following day, Taylor woke to find his clothes folded at the foot of the bed. He smiled, enjoying the whiff of fresh lavender in his red shirt and patches sown into his jeans. On the bedside table was a mug of water and bowl of meaty stew. It tasted delicious and when he was finished, a beautiful woman in red linen entered the room. She was young and olive skinned, with dark eyes and a delicate frame bearing the advanced stages of pregnancy. Taylor nodded his thanks as she collected his empty bowl, but the soft faced woman didn't seem interested. She left through the door and Taylor's guardian entered shortly thereafter.
Taylor affectionately nicknamed him Bull due to his exceptional size and strength. As Taylor threw on his jeans and buttoned up his shirt, Bull showed five men into the room. They were bald and plump around the waist, dressed in ankle length golden garments. Each held silver pots of aromatic incense, wore emerald beads and gold rings. Bull appeared to introduce Taylor to his visitors before meekly lowering his head, as if not worthy of these guests, these priests.
Taylor sat back, annoyed by the interruption yet allowing them to get a look at him. They lowered their smoking pots and inspected Taylor with a fascination he didn't expect. One started a chant as another hovered his hands over Taylor's head, as if performing some kind of cleansing ritual. What appeared to shock these men the most was Taylor's pale Celtic skin. They smeared fingers over his body as if attempting to wipe away the color. They discussed the matter amongst themselves while Taylor experienced a painful wrench in his gut, realizing that the only time a Caucasian could be viewed as unique was in the far distant past. He then observed, through new eyes, their strong bone structure and clothing appropriate for the climate.
"Africa," he mumbled, causing the men to gasp with amazement.
Bull pointed to the torch and the priests crept closer to the gauntlet. They reached to touch it, only to recoil when Taylor reached out to them.
"There's nothing to fear," he explained. "I'm not a God. I'm a man, like you. Human," he insisted, patting his chest. "I know it's hard for you to understand. It's difficult for me too." Taylor stopped to gaze at blank stares and deep frowns. "Look lads, here's the thing, all I want is a stiff drink."
Without warning, the brassy sound of a blowing horn resounded outside. The priests kicked over their perfumed pots in haste as each man, Bull included, began gathering up the sacks stacked under the window. More than in a hurry, more than in a panic, they were in fear for their lives.
They dragged the sacks out through the door, spilling seeds as Taylor limped behind into a dome shaped room, a humble area with pillows placed around a central fire. The straining priests pushed sacks passed Bull's woman, who propped open an arched door that lead outside.
She lowered her eyes when Taylor met hers at the threshold. Continuing outside, the startling heat parched him immediately. Already dizzy and with the heavy torch further throwing his equilibrium, he stumbled onto the hot ground.
Glancing up from the dirt, the village consisted of 20 huts, with rolling dunes in the distance and jungle receding at the sides. There was a swollen river behind, filled with sparkling water with lush grass and palm trees growing on the banks. It was paradise.
Taylor spotted a large earthenware pot outside Bull's hut and stood to dunk his
head into the warm water within. Dripping wet and satisfied, he settled against the pot to watch events unfold.
Two dozen scarcely clothed villagers worked together to drag sacks from their huts and pack them neatly in the middle of the village. There were more than 30 sacks of seeds, but judging by the concern marking the villagers faces, it didn't appear to be enough.
Worried priests cast their arms into the sky and begged the sun to show them mercy; laboured looking men meanwhile blustered at each other until one was singled out. The scrawny and browbeaten man clasped his hands together and apologized to his peers as a fascinated Taylor studied it all from the sidelines.
Another horn boomed from the dunes, resulting in workers kneeling and planting their noses against the ground. While they prostrated, a caravan of donkey-drawn wagons rolled slowly into the village. Taylor slid low behind the large pot, deciding that his best move was not moving at all.
The first carts carried fat sacks, but the last carried an iron cage, through which Taylor could see a huddle of emaciated prisoners.
The carts were driven by cloaked figures, wearing the same decorative gold garments as the village priests. The tired donkeys stopped at the centre of the village and workers hurried with water to slake their thirst.
Hooded figures stepped off the carts and began counting the sacks the villagers had amassed. A lone cloaked figure remained on the cart, seemingly scrutinizing the silver ledger in his hand. He or she appeared to be overseeing the entire operation.
When the count was complete, the priests addressed a tense and grovelling audience. Again, Taylor couldn't decipher the language but read between the lines, the workers were short and someone would have to pay for the discrepancy. Taylor squinted at Bull on his hands and knees. The biggest man in the village was just as frightened as those around him.
Priests yelled over the sorry workers backs, gesticulating between the sacks and the cage. The individual on the cart set down his ledger and hit the ground with a dusty thud. He was around seven feet tall, with a bronze beak protruding from his golden hood. His hands were long, the fingers extending to claws which he used to throw back his hood. Taylor saw the creature's bauble-like eyes and densely feathered face, and gasped. The creature took time to observe the sacks, counting each over before aiming its hand toward the cage. The man who had come up short stood shaking. Piss streaming down his leg, the worker was marched to the cage, where the priests oversaw his imprisonment.
The bird dusted its palms, stepped back onto the wagon as the workers loaded the carts. When all the sacks were gathered the priests returned to the carts and clicked the donkeys into a trot. Taylor made himself small as the caravan moved out of the village, headed for a path between the dunes.
Relieved and exhausted workers then retreated to their huts, wives and children, while Taylor stepped out from his hiding place.
"Where the hell am I?”
— CHAPTER ELEVEN —
