I took a chance and said, “Arkansas.” She grinned then and said, “Well that’s good. For a while I thought ya might be a Yankee Spy.”
I grinned and said, “No how and no way am I a Yank. Nor do I adhere to their political persuasion.”
She grinned and then declared without a bit of embarrassment, “Oh, yeah. And that thar underwear of your ’n is tha queerest I’s ever witnessed.”
I took another chance and responded, “They’s a newfangled type from France. Just came up from Nawleans to Arkansas.” She grinned again, but I couldn’t tell if she believed me. I went back to eating, but at a slower pace and trying to push some of the food onto my knife and then transferring it to my mouth. This seemed to satisfy her. She continued to look at me as I ate. I felt self-conscious and didn’t really look her in the eye. She seemed to be considering what I said and appraising me at the same time. I finally finished eating and began to drink my coffee.
I looked up at her and she grinned back at me. I had been leaning forward with my elbows on the table and the coffee cup in front of my face. I suddenly put the cup on the table and jerked upright as if a bolt of lightning had hit me.
In my mind I said, “Oh my Lord!”
The Dark Mage’s Log: Axeylon 5: Galaxy Date: 16314
There was a heart rending scream that signified a plea for pity which echoed from the lower regions of the Palace on Axeylon 5. Lord Dendaras looked skyward with closed eyes and a face displaying ecstasy as he savored the scream’s fear and terror. Then he looked down on the recalled and trembling Jarbree and proclaimed, “You have disgraced the office of Watcher. How did you let an imposter travel in place of our contracted slayer? Answer me!”
Jarbree stuttered, “S-S-Sire, the slayer approached in his vehicle as instructed. He entered the woods as he had been directed. It was dark. I could only see his form and he had the same body shape as our slayer. Besides, no unauthorized entity has ever been transported before.”
“Did you run the diagnostic check via the chip embedded in his arm as was protocol?” queried Lord Dendaras.
Jarbree turned white as a sheet. “I… huh… It was dark. I thought he was alright,” he whined. Having thought of a new excuse, Jarbree reasoned, “Besides, Sire, he would have been checked on his arrival on ‘Earth 3’ by Jarreal.”
Lord Dendaras rose from his throne with a horrific look on his face, pointed an accusing finger at the Watcher and bellowed, “You are a dishonor to the Watcher Guild. I will personally deal with you in the Lower Dungeon. Your agony will be prolonged for ages. Your screams will be audible to the populace as both a warning to all Watchers to follow protocol and as punishment for you.”
Jarbree fell to his knees and gasped, “No Sire. Please. I promise it will never happen again. Have mercy!” Blood from his back pores was running in rivulets down his backside staining his uniform black.
Lord Dendaras averted his gaze from the almost prostrate figure and turned to his guards. With a sneer of abhorrence, the potentate rendered his verdict, “Take this pitiful excuse for a member of the Recognized Way to the dungeons to await my creative imagination for his punishment. As a precursor give him thirty infestations of scarabs.”
“No, no, no,” screamed Jarbree as the guards dragged him out of the throne room.
Lord Dendaras watched the exit with a mocking grin on his face, relishing the stained back of the Watcher’s uniform.
I realized this woman looked just like my Grandmother when she was a teenage girl in the few pictures I had of her in an old photo album back home.
I asked, “What’s your name?”
She replied, “What’s your ‘n?”
I thought quickly and just pulling a name out of the air said, “James Hager.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits as she ogled me closely. “I thought ya said ya weren’t no Yankee Spy.”
“I ain’t”, I said, reverting to what I call redneck Southern colloquial speech.
“Tha Hagers been known to be Unionist from up north in Hagerstown. Is that why youse in this area roaming about and getting yaself in such a shape that needed tending to? Did the Rebs get after ya and hurt ya?” she asked.
“No, no, no,” I responded. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout no Hagers from Hagerstown. I came to Baltimore from Arkansas about a year ago and was teaching school.” I took a chance on American history and added, “When all tha ruckus about Abe Lincoln’s election came to tha fore, I determined to jine tha Confederates and lit out for Virginny. On my jaunt from Baltimore to Virginny I ran into a lot of trouble.”
“First, my horse went lame and I had to sell him fur a lot less than what he was worth. Then I ran into Yanks coming up from tha south, probably Washington City, and had to go further north than I wanted to get past ‘em. I guess all tha travel and worrying about getting stopped by tha Yanks got me under tha weather and I just broke down. So those’re tha reasons, ya found me in such distress. And by tha way, as I remember, ya was a’pulling me out of tha water when I blacked out. Again, I want to thank ya for all tha help, for washing my clothes and for feeding me tha delicious victuals.” I hoped my appreciations blunted her reservations about my impromptu story.
She eyed me for a few seconds and said, “It t’weren’t nothing. My name’s Hattie Gray by tha way.”
Again, I nearly choked. That was my grandmother’s maiden name. Her grandfather’s family lived in Carrollton, Georgia during the Civil War and moved to Alabama after the war, but they definitely weren’t from Virginia or from this area of Virginia, which became West Virginia in 1863. Her prior interrogation and her personal information had stopped me from trying to find out a vital piece of intelligence. What was today’s date?
However, first I needed to make a proper greeting. I calmed my breathing and dutifully enunciated, “Hattie, I’m pleased to make yar acquaintance.”
She smiled. I couldn’t help but see she was missing a front tooth in her lower row of teeth.
Then I asked, “I’ve lost count of days. Could ya tell me which day it is?”
“Why it’s tha 12th of September,” she said.
“And just to make sure, what year?” I asked.
“Why ‘tis 1862,” she volunteered in a suspicious voice.
I looked down at the table for a moment and looking up I further probed, “Have therah been a lot of soldiers around herah over tha last few days?”
She eyed me for a long moment and then declared, “Nope.” Then she questioned, “Ya sure ya didn’t fall on yar head instead of a-getting’ sick?”
I just chuckled and took another swig of coffee. I did the math in my head and realized Hattie was alive 38 years before she was supposed to be. My eyes must have glazed over in contemplation because I suddenly came to my senses and looked up. She was eyeballing me quizzically. So, I got hold of myself and asked, “What do I owe ya for taking such good care of me?”
That broke the awkward silence and she responded, “Ya had a good amount of cash on ya, when ya came into our care. It’s in your coat on tha clothes peg in tha bedroom. I leave it up to ya.”
It surprised me that the money I had kept with me wasn’t considered worthless or counterfeit. I thought I would have to trade manual labor for anything I owed her. I replied, “I can’t remember tha amount I had. I bettah recount it.”
I got up and headed for the bedroom. I pulled my coat off the peg and pulled the money out of the pocket. The cache consisted of ten faded $20 bills, a $5 bill and five $1 bills along with my wedding ring. However, the real kicker was they weren’t the kind of U.S. Treasury bills with which I was familiar. They were U.S. Treasury bills that had to be compatible with the currency of the 1860’s because Hattie had referred to there being a good amount of cash on me when they found me. The scary factor was that these bills were totally different from the currency I had before I was conveyed here.
I just stood there for a few moments in a quandary as unanswerable question
s again invaded my mind, “Why did my money change to the currency of this time period, but not my clothes? Who was orchestrating this whole experience? Can I get back to my time period?”
I walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. I just sat there for a minute trying to figure things out and getting nowhere.
Hattie stuck her head in the door and said, “It’s all thar, ain’t it?”
I looked up, smiled and said,” I had no doubts ‘bout that.” I had a sudden inspiration and asked, “Do y’all rent out rooms?”
She answered, “Not usually, but that thar room ain’t being used at this time and we could stand tha money.”
I asked, “Would ya rent it to me for a month, while I get back on my feet?” She answered, “Yeah, I guess we can.”
“Would ten dollars for tha month including breakfast and dinner plus fixing my clothes be okay?” I offered.
“Yeah, I reckon that’d do me okay,” she said. I handed her the five-dollar bill and five one dollar bills. She thanked me and turned to go.
I had another thought and said, “Ya keep referring to ‘we’ all tha time. Who’s we?”
“Me, Papa, my brothers, A.B. and C.D., plus my sisters, Jewel and Poppie,” she declared.
“Are all of ya located in this house?” I asked.
“Nope. Me, Papa and my brothers live in tha other two cabins out back. My sisters are married and scattered around tha area, “she volunteered.
“Where’s your Papa and brothers?” I inquired.
“They’d be at tha mill grinding corn for meal. I hope that’s all yar questions. I done spent a heap of time yakking with ya. I need to get some chores done. Why don’t ya go for a walk and get some of yar strength back. The town’s just about a half mile that away.” She pointed northwest. “And by tha way, ya mentioned you’s a teacher. The old scrawny teacher we had done got run off by some of tha mean boys in his class. So, there might be a job open fur ya.”
“Okay, who’s tha person I need to talk to about tha teaching job?” I asked.
She volunteered, “T’would be tha bank president, Mr. Throckmorton. He’s sort of tha hiring and firing high mucky muck for tha school. He’s located in tha town bank. Ya can’t miss it. It’s on German Street and close to tha edge of town nearest to us.”
“Well, I better get fully dressed and see what will transpire,” I said. I started to go, but turned back and asked, “Oh yeah, do ya have a razor I could use? If’n I’m gonna interview for a job, I need to look my best,” I explained.
She looked at me and replied, “Yep, Papa’s gotta straight razor and foaming soap. He and my brothers don’t use it much, but yar welcome to it.”
I looked at her in shock. I had once again forgotten what time period I was in. Years ago, as a teenager I had tried to shave with a straight razor and nearly cut my face to shreds.
“What’s a’matter? Ya look green around tha gills,” she diagnosed.
“Nothing,” I maintained. “Does he have a razor strop and mirror too?” I asked.
“Yep, I’ll get all tha shaving kit together along with some hot water in a pan for ya. Ya can take it out back. There’s a stump next to tha barn with a nail in tha barn wall. Ya can loop tha wire on tha back of tha mirror over tha nail to see whatcha doing and put all your shaving gear on tha stump,” she answered.
“Thanks Hattie,” I replied.
I retreated to my room and contemplated the fate of what was about to happen to my facial features. I was not looking forward to this ghastly procedure.
Hattie yelled, “It’s a’ready. Better come and get this done while tha water’s hot.” I walked into the big dining room/kitchen like a man going to the gallows.
Hattie took one look at me and uttered, “What’s wrong wit cha?”
“Nothin’,” I retorted. I draped the strop and a small rag over my left arm, picked up the soap dish with the bristle brush in my left hand and the razor in my right hand. Then I tried to pick up the hot water pan while holding all the gear, but couldn’t manage all the paraphernalia at once. Hattie had to end up carrying the hot water pan to the stump for me while I carted all the other shaving gear.
When she set down the pan, she looked at me and declared, “Jim Hager, ya are one troublesome gent.” Then she left me to my fate.
With a sigh, I slipped my bracers over my shoulders and removed my shirt, which I put on a fence post near the barn. Then, I surveyed the situation and determined that I needed the razor to be ultra-sharp for my four-day beard. So, I fit the hole in the handle of the razor strop over the nail in the barn wall, and holding the end of the strop in my left hand, I began to slide one side of the razor up the strop and then switching sides sliding it down the strop with my right hand. I even got a decent rhythm going. In fact, I got so enmeshed in sliding the razor up and down that I got it too close to my left hand and cut my thumb. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it took me awhile and the use of the small rag to stop the bleeding.
Putting some water in the shaving foam dish and jostling the brush around until a good lather was built up, I was ready to try my hand at 19th century shaving. So, I took down the razor strop and laid it over the stump and put the mirror on the nail via the wire. Next, I applied enough lather on the right side of my face from the ear down to my jawline to completely saturate the beard. Remembering the configuration of a razor, which was like a jack knife, with the first four fingers of my right hand, I picked up the weapon on the dull back side of the razor blade and pulled the handle away from the razor with my left hand. I positioned the razor in my right hand with the handle at a ninety-degree angle from the back of the razor with my pinkie holding the handle open so it couldn’t close. Looking in the mirror, I gently placed the razor at a forty-five-degree angle to my beard on the right side of my face at ear lobe level and began a downward movement toward the jaw line.
The razor moved like a hot knife going through butter. I couldn’t believe it. I was elated. I immersed the razor in the hot water to remove any leftover beard or soap. I again lathered up and performed the same ritual working my way toward my nose. At the last moment, I decided to keep a mustache so I didn’t shave my upper lip. I shaved my lower lip down to my chin and only cut myself once in the process. Then came the really hard part, I had to turn to show the left side of my face and work the razor across my body while looking one-eyed into the small mirror. I did okay from the ear to the jaw, but I cut my chin again when I attempted to further remove whiskers from this troublesome facial area.
Thence, I decided I needed the razor to be sharpened again. So, I put the razor strop over the mirror on the nail, performed the sliding up and down of the razor on the strop and disengaged the strop from the nail. Lastly, I applied lather across my neck area and shaved downward from the jawline. I did okay until I came to a small mole that sat above the skin on the right side of my neck. I lacerated it pretty good, and I bled like a stuck hog.
I completely saturated the small rag in blood before I finally staunched the bleeding. I did a survey of the battlefield that was my face and did a quick redo of some facial parts that needed further attention. Finally, I decided that enough was enough.
However, looking in the mirror I saw a different person staring back at me. Who was this thirty-something person? My hair had always been a sort of dishwater blonde color, but it had been invaded by the color white over the years. Now it was back to the color it was when I was a young whippersnapper. The mustache was red, which it had been in my youth. I looked down at the remnants of the beard in the water pan and they were red also. I hadn’t even noticed these changes due to my inane fear of shaving. In addition to changes in the hair and beard color, a lot of my facial wrinkles were gone along with the turkey gobbler skin under my chin.
My money had changed physically and so had I during the transfer here. I tried to understand the implications. Questions raced through my mind, “Why had this happened to me? Was it because of Karma? What was tha
t Sphere? Where did it come from? Can I get back to my time?” I was starting to get a headache and decided to just drop my interrogation of the Powers That Be for the moment.
I threw out the water in the pan, put on my shirt, resituated my bracers and walked back to the house. Once in the house, I gave the shaving kit to Hattie. She took one look at the blood soaked rag and glanced at my face. “Your neck’s still oozing some blood,” she pronounced. “Wait herah,” she ordered and fetched another rag from a drawer in the tall dish cabinet. Putting a dab of bacon grease on the rag, she gently applied it to the lacerated mole on my neck. I winced because it burned like fire for a moment and then gratefully settled into a dull ache. “Therah. That ought to do it,” she decided.
“Again, I am in yar debt,” I declared. She grinned from ear to ear.
I retreated to my room and put on my coat. I walked back to where Hattie was scrubbing breakfast pots and pans and asked, “How do I look?” She looked me up and down. Then she declared, ”Ya look adequate.”
Disappointedly I asked, “Just adequate?”
She nodded, turned back to her cleaning and said, “Yep, adequate.”
I left in a huff leaving my weathered hat behind.
I took my time on the walk to town enjoying the sights and sounds of nature. The day was warming up and the trees were just starting to turn colorful for the fall. The bees were buzzing. The birds were chirping. Butterflies were flittering everywhere. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time. The country dirt road led upward from the Potomac to higher ground and turned north. I followed it to town with the idea of getting some clothing that made me look better than just adequate.
I reached town in about forty-five minutes. As I said, I took my time and enjoyed the day. The road I had been traversing contained residential homes. But once I got close to town, the residential area stopped and different types of business shops occupied both sides of the main street. The business area even had wooden sidewalks in front of some of the shops. This had to be German Street, but the pockmarked dirt street was a far cry from the paved road and concrete sidewalks of the 21st Century. I saw the bank Hattie had mentioned on the right side of the main street. In my time the bank had been converted into a restaurant.
Assassins of History- Transference Page 6
