Jericho Johnson: The Gauntlet of Time
J.A. Stowell
Copyright 2012 by J.A. Stowell
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without premission except in the case of brief quotations in articals/reviews. This book is a work of, not only fiction, but science-fiction and all characters therein are portrayed thusly. Any resemblence to persons either living or deceased is strictly coincedential.
Whether any scientific statements made within this work of science-fiction are correct and/or viable is quite unlikely.
Just saying.
Prologue
I might be dead in a few hours.
Please, I don't need your pity, sympathy or any other means of giving me the ol' pick me up gig because, honestly, I think I'm way past the dealing with death issue.
My only regret is that, if I do happen to die soon, it won't be from natural causes, I can assure you. Which bites, really, because I bet a tired old doctor would've just loved to have had a patient that was almost ok with dying.
Just saying.
So, now that we've all established my demise and, hopefully, are alright with the fact that you're about to hear a story by someone about to kick off and leave all of his fans behind to wonder just where he's gone, then we can proceed.
I’ve learned many things in my travels.
Like how you should never buy food from certain vendors in Chinatown. Or that when in Rome, make sure you act as American as possible. I’ve learned how to defend myself, physically and psychologically, in many different ways. I also have a knack for knowing how to dress no matter where I go.
I can’t help that I’m awesome--so don’t take it personal.
Knowing these afore mentioned items is nice and most certainly comes in handy every single day.
But there are some things that only I know. These things, as I so eloquently put it, mainly have to do with history.
Some of them aren’t mentioned in the books, though. For instance: nowhere in any kind of history book you read will tell you that Vikings think a man in a expensive black business suit is perfectly normal, whereas the crusading English knights find it appalling.
The books tell us of the glory of chain mail and how it was the most ingenious idea of the Third century but also fail to let us know that you had to be able to bench press a small jeep to be able to wear the stuff. Not to mention that it really didn't take off as the 'must have' armor until around the Sixth century and even that was really just in the middle east. Don't ask because I just know.
We all know the three-hundred Spartans were a ruff tuff group of handsome rouges bent on saving their culture with their supreme combat abilities. Of course we all do. Because of our precious history books and history channel. When in reality there had been almost fourteen-hundred of them. They did, miraculously enough, get their red loin cloths right, but forgot to mention just how uncomfortable they were. Not to wear, though, just the whole ’running into primeval combat in my underwear’ thing. We all speak of their bravery, and for good reason, too. Going into a fight involving spears, swords, and other old school sharp objects basically naked is not for the faint of heart. I can tell you that first hand.
They told us Poe was a drunk crazy man. Wrong. They said Bonaparte didn’t take over the whole world when in fact the only places he didn’t control in his reign were the undiscovered regions we now call the arctic.
History as we know it is wrong about everything. And not just about the sword and shield days, either. I’m talking about Marilynn Monroe, John Dillenger, Joseph Stalin- real recent type jazz.
I can’t tell you everything. Mainly because I’m not supposed to know myself. Indeed, the knowledge I have and the way I aquired it is extremely bad for my health. But I’ve been quiet for too long. The entire world will never know about the things of which I am about to tell you.
So sit down. No, really, you need to sit down for this, seriously.
My name is Jericho Johnson. I’m twenty-two years old, hate Irish wolfhounds with a passion, can swing a mean battle-axe, and I’m awesome. Did I mention that already?
This story begins in 793 A.D. I had just bought a new suit, it was raining, and I had foolishly forgot my umbrella
Chapter 1
“Stupid stupid,” I muttered to my drenched self. The rain wasn’t super hard, or anything, but terribly cold. “Of course I remembered my digital camera but not my freaking umbrella!” I said.
I glanced down the hill I was on at a band of fur clad men approaching me. There were twelve of them in all.
I couldn’t resist a quick snapshot of the dozen viking warriors coming up the hill. Their axes and broadswords glinted from my flash as they came to a stop in front of me.
“Evening, guys. How are things?” I said to them, putting on my best smile and extending my left hand to the one who seemed to be the leader of the pack. I know that the right hand was the one most commonly employed for greetings among most all cultures, but due to the odd glove I had on my right, I decided the left would feel less aggressive.
I had been observing their small village for almost two days now. From a safe distance of course and only taking photos when the urge was too great not to obey. The man looked at my hand then at my black suit. After seeing that the guy was just going to leave me hanging I put my hand back down.
Then he rattled off something in Scandinavian. Ah. How could I have forgot. I guess because I hadn’t actually had a verbal exchange with any of them since my arrival almost three days ago. I held up my gloved hand and hit a button. “What are your theories on global warming and the mad cow disease?”
This was the question I asked most of the time now. I used to amuse myself from time to time by seriously abusing the fact that the person I was speaking to didn’t understand a single word I was saying. I ceased this dangerous practice because of one occasion in the late 1720s when I rattled out a very off-color insult to a man on the streets of Bruges thinking that he didn’t speak English. Why did I think he wouldn’t speak English? You guessed it--history books. My black eye certainly proved them wrong on that one.
The viking before me now looked at his comrades for help and seemed a bit unsure of himself. Then he started talking. I listened intently, nodding now and then as if I understood and actually cared about whatever he was saying.
A soft orange light blinked on one side of the glove for about thirty seconds before turning blue and glowing steady- indicating that my glove had obtained enough Scandinavian dialogue to put together their alphabet. “Show time,” I muttered to myself, producing a earpiece from my inside coat pocket.
The man had ceased his Scandinavian rant when he saw the dark blue gadget I put in my ear. “Now, what were you saying?” I asked.
The dozen or so vikings in front of me went all sorts of wide eyed.
“How can you speak our language, stranger?” The man who had given me enough dialogue for my glove asked.
I thought about spinning some insanely awesome tale of my being awesome and could therefore do as I pleased when I pleased- but thought better of it. “Does it matter all that much?” I asked instead.
“It does.” Was his reply.
I sighed, “Well, if you simply must know it has to do with this glove.” I said, tapping the said glove with a finger. “Or maybe you guys call these things gauntlets, I don’t know.”
I frowned when I said this and gave my glove a long glance. The more I looked the more I realized that it really was more of a gauntlet than a glove.
“So,” I said, “What’d you say your name was again?”
&
nbsp; “Bulwark the mighty, Bjourn the Berserker‘s younger brother.” The one who had been doing all the talking said. He didn’t seem the least bit puffed up about it, either. I know if I had a severely bodacious name like Bulwark the mighty or Bjourn the Berserker, I’d pretty much where a t-shirt letting everyone know about it.
“Well then, Bulwark, you guys have nothing to fear of me. I’m simply a man on a quest for knowledge. Nothing more.” I said, smiling reassuringly at him. “I just want to know about your people. Your likes, dislikes, if you guys really have braided beards…” I glanced over the lot of men in front of me, just to make sure one of them were sporting one the sweet beards I always gave my Dungeons & Dragons character. None of them were.
Of course what I was telling them was true depending on how you looked at it. “Bjourn is not welcoming to strangers.” Bulwark stated, almost awkwardly, it seemed.
“Would you mind terribly to allow me a greeting with this Bjourn?” I asked. This was a super shot in the dark. The odds of these people letting some weirdo in a suit with a souped up blue tooth have an audience with their chieftain wasn’t looking too good. But one of the things I have learned in my travels is that the worst thing they could do was tell me no.
Or decapitate me.
Bulwark pondered on this, “Do you have any weapons, traveler?” He asked this cautious enough, almost as if he were afraid I was a wizard or something and could be offended. His eyes dropped to my gloved hand. Not that I blamed him or anything. The fingers on it were thick at the base and ended in some devilishly sharp points.
I chose my next words carefully, “No axes or swords to speak of, Bulwark.” I said, extending my hands palm-upward to allow them all a good look. “This glove is just for traveling, captain.” One of the vikings on my right narrowed his eyes. Seeing that he was toting a wicked cool hammer, I added, “And no hammers.”
Seemingly satisfied that I wasn’t packing, Bulwark simply nodded once and turned to head back down the hill toward the village. I fell in step behind them and couldn’t help letting one side of my mouth curve into a almost sardonic smile. It was strange to think of these hardened viking warriors as being innocent while I, the twenty-four year old dude from Chicago, was the not-so-innocent one.
Don’t get me wrong when I use the term innocent. I do not employ that word often because after all I’ve seen I’m starting to think there is no such thing anymore.
But at times such as these, when people like the vikings are thinking I’m weaponless because of course if I had a weapon they would be able to see it, right? I think this is the best use for the word innocent. I’m not saying I’m a walking arsenal, or anything. But I did have a few tricks up my sleeve. Literally.
Take the glove I was just bragging about, for instance. Apart from it having the capability of sailing me through time and space and looking totally awesome, it dueled as my weapon/defense against unfriendlies. I didn’t know all the ins and outs of it, but I had lit a few folks up like a California Christmas tree before.
But then again, I had only had it for a little over a year at the time. The fact that it was considered 24th century technology, and that I just skimmed through the manual on the glove like a lame birthday card from my aunt Greta, was the main reason I didn’t know the full capability of my glove.
Sure I’d tested out all the buttons in a secure location, which, incidentally, was the Arabian desert in 1894 where I was sure no one would get hurt. After messing around with it for a few hours I had deduced that after you took the bells and whistles away from the glove, it was basically a pretty average hot shot except the electricity did shoot out in a sweet visible bolt that went out thirty feet and could probably knock someone at least that far if I had to use it on any unfriendly person I met in my travels. It also had the usual super-hero type features, like a grappling hook, for starters. Back then I didn’t realize just how useful one of those could be, but I sure as heck do now. There was a screen on the top of the wrist part that showed me basically everything a time-traveler should know. Like the date at the top left-hand corner, and the temperature at the top right-hand corner. It was a little over twenty degrees when I was with the vikings. The rest of the screen was mostly taken up by little important tidbits such as my heart rate, oxygen level, and blood pressure. It was all touch screen and so user friendly it would make Apple jealous.
One button at the top center was labeled weapons/defense and had to do with just that, my hot shot and grappling hook. The other button to the right of that one said new date and was where I put in the date of the next place I fancied visiting. Example: if I put in Paris, France 1645, and hit enter, I would be there in less than fifteen seconds. I know. Wicked, right?
When we had reached the village, the rest of it’s inhabitants stared at me in a shocked way. Whether it was because of my suit, or the fact they could feel the awesomeness radiating from me, I didn’t get a chance to find out because their chief met me at the door, let’s say.
“What is it you want?” He bellowed, brandishing a bodacious double-bladed axe that looked like it weighed more than I did. “Speak, outsider.”
In my year of traveling, I had encountered more people like Bjourn the Berserker than I could count- afraid of the unknown. Handling them was not always easy, and I could see already that the exchange with Bjourn was sizing up to be a nasty one if I didn’t play my cards right.
“Chief Bjourn, I trust?” I said, noticing to my delight that his blood red beard was braided into two neat rows that reached his stomach. “My name is Jericho Johnson,” I added, dipping into a small bow, “And I have come from a very, very long way to see the might of your dynasty. I also wanted to see if all I’d heard of you and your valiant warriors were true.”
This was true. I had come there to see if vikings were all they were cracked up to be and to check out the braided beard situation. But they didn’t need to know that.
Bjourn narrowed his eyes at me, flicking them down to my glove. “And what is it that you have heard?”
Back in school I was called every single thing that had to do with being a suck-up--and for good reason. Not to brag or anything, but I am pretty good at it.
“Why, you have not heard the devastatingly beautiful dramas of Bjourn the freakin’ awesome Berserker and his band of vikings?” I said, looking very aghast that he hadn’t.
Bjourn closed the gap between us, never letting his eyes leave me. After he had stopped right in front of me and stared at me for a uncomfortably long time, he smiled and slapped me on the shoulder. “Well then, Jericho Johnson. You shall dine with us tonight in my great hall and tell us all of these tales about myself.” He said, laughing.
After I had received a few more slaps on the back I began realizing why they all wore armor. These guys could kill you with kindness.
Bjourn then insisted on having a guide show me around his lands while we waited for the feast to be prepared. That was just fine with me because I had just eaten a bowl of cold mac ‘n cheese that I’d brought with me from my mansion in Chicago almost an hour ago and didn’t want to seem rude by my lack of appetite at the feast.
Upon my request, I was granted some authentic viking garb complete with a pointed helmet and about five wolves worth of furs. PETA would’ve had a major field day with these dudes. The boots I was given pretty much put Dr. Scholls and any other comfortable footwear company to shame. I was told that the feast would be ready in an hour and that the great horn would be blown when it was time.
I was most excited to discover my guide to be a gorgeous warrior woman with white blonde hair and a mean looking sword and outlook on life. Most of my excitement was due to the fact that history had only had a few speculations about viking women being warriors.
“You are the traveler?” She asked me, sounding as if she’d rather be having her right arm slowly sawed off instead of having to show me the sights.
“Names Jericho.” I said, “And you are?”
She cast me a look an
d said, “Piper.”
“Where?” I said, looking around for some 8th century instrument player.
“No, fool. My name is Piper.”
Wow. A viking warrior chic named Piper. Just wow. It was probably a good thing she didn’t have a name like Arwin or Gwendolyn because I’m pretty sure my inner nerd would’ve taken over and I would have kissed her right then and there.
We started our journey at the village square where she showed me the fish market and then the tanner and blacksmith. I was working my digital camera overtime and soon had filled one SD card and had to retrieve another.
Piper had been silent the whole time I was snapping photos like a wild man, but I could feel her eyes on me and my Kodak. While I was changing the SD card, she finally spoke. “And what, in the name of Odin, is that?” She asked, peering at it curiously.
“Piper, meet Thelma.” I said, handing her my camera. “Thelma, Piper.”
She examined it curiously. “But what does it do?”
This was always fun. “Here,” I said, taking it back. “I could show you faster than I could explain it.” I stepped back from her and held it up so I could see the pretty norse girl on the camera’s screen.
“Say cheese.” I said.
She blinked at me for a few seconds before she finally caught on that I really did want her to say cheese. “Uh, cheese?” She said, looking quite adorable when she made it into a question. She then cried out when the flash went off and ducked. “Thor’s beard!” She said, instantly looking around to make sure none of the older folks had heard her blasphemous comment against the god of thunder.
Teenagers. I guess they weren't really that different over a thousand years ago, after all. “Sorry.” I said, “I probably should’ve warned you about the flash.” I turned the camera around so the shaken girl could get a look at herself on the screen.
She stared openmouthed at the photo with unbelieving eyes.
“Ah… you blinked.” I said, noticing she had her eyes closed in the first and only photo she would ever have taken of herself. “Here, let’s take another one.”
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