by Alex Myers
“Who goes there?” The old man was squinting in the bright light.
“Jack Riggs! Don’t shoot!” He stood straight and put his hands in the air.
“Where you from, Jack Riggs?”
“I’m from Virginia Beach.”
“You mean out by Seatack?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Why is the old guy calling it that?
The old man took a few tentative steps out of the building and lowered his weapon slightly. “Thought it might be Cherokee. Can’t be too safe these days.”
“Cherokee? As in Native Americans?”
“No, Cherokee as in Indians,” the old man said.
“That’s what I meant.” Indians? Jack said under his breath. Getting a better look at the man, Jack realized he could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty. His long face was accented by a wildly tangled pompadour of white hair on the top and oversized teeth on the bottom. He was slim, a bit stoop-shouldered, with long lanky arms and legs. The most noticeable of all his features had to be his cathedral beard that split like a fishtail at the end. His clothing looked expensive, dirty but finely tailored.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Jack reached to hold the fence down to step over it.
“Wouldn’t do that if I was you. The ‘lectric’ll likely knock you on your ass.”
Jack reevaluated the fence and, sure enough, there were glass insulators on the fenceposts. He looked on the ground, found a small stick with a crook in it and held down the wire as he stepped over it.
“How’d you know to do that?”
“Wood is a poor conductor of electricity. It’s just science.”
The old man looked perplexed. “What can I do for you, young feller?”
“I’ve been in a car accident. Got bumped in the head pretty hard and, somehow, I got lost in the process. I can't find my girlfriend, and I'm afraid she might be hurt.”
“Lost, huh? What kind of accident did you say you were in? You look like you were shot at and missed and shit at and hit. Got blood all over yourself.”
“Car—automobile.”
“Car?”
“Yeah, a Lexus. Why?”
“Don’t really know what that is,” the old man said, scratching the back of his trousers.
“It’s just a high-end Toyota, really.”
The old man just stared at him blank-faced.
“Never mind. Would you happen to have a phone that works?”
"Can't say that I do."
"What do you mean? You don’t have one, or you don’t have one that works?"
Jack watched him scratch the seat of his pants and tug on his beard before he answered. "Either one of them there things."
Jack extended his hand.
The old man stepped forward, held out his dark weathered hand, and gave Jack’s a hardy shake. “The name’s Murphy,” he said. “Murphy McCord. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
Jack paused for a moment and said, “Can’t say that I remember, but the name sounds familiar.” The man was sort of friendly in a cantankerous way and Jack didn’t want to hurt the old guy’s feelings.
“Used to be a Senator in Washington, but spent a great deal of time in the Capitol down in Texas. You have heard of Texas, right?”
“Sure, everyone’s heard of —“
“I left here and moved there—Texas that is—as a man of twenty-nine. Was right happy too, that is until my wife and child were killed. There was nothing left for me there, so I came home. This is all that’s left of my family’s homestead.”
He paused long enough looking out at the fields that Jack felt the need to ask him how it had happened. “Drunk driver?”
“Indians, dammit, that’s why I keep my ass so high up in the air.”
“Did you just say Indians again?”
“Comanche.”
“I thought you said Cherokee.”
“Comanches are in Texas. Cherokees are here in Virginia, least some of them are. When I came back from Texas a few years back, I ran into a particularly ornery breed called the Buffalo Ridge Cherokees over in Amherst County. They said they’d skin me if they ever saw me again.”
“OK, makes perfect sense to me. That’s what I thought you said.” Yeah, right, Jack thought. This old guy is nuts. Let me just get out of here without this old fart shooting me. “How do I get back to Virginia Beach?” Jack asked.
“You’re a heck of a lot closer to Norfolk.”
“How close?”
“About three miles or so east.”
“And to Virginia Beach?”
“Hmm.” Murphy said pulling on his beard. “With the poor roads, probably about thirteen or fourteen.”
“We can’t be that close to Norfolk. I don’t see any roads or buildings.”
“Well, the town is growing like wildfire, there’s something new every time I visit, new buildings and all, but trust me young feller, the town is there.” Murphy squinted at Jack with one eye closed as if Jack was crazy. “You got a mind to eat?” Murphy asked. “I’m just about ready to sit myself down to some grub. You’re welcome to get yourself some and sit a spell. We ought to get you cleaned up first and let me take a look at your wounds. Doesn’t look to be you’re still bleeding.”
Jack thought it was strange how nonchalantly the old man took to a stranger showing up bloody and injured and how easily he’d offered to help. He figured he probably could use a little doctoring, no matter how un-antiseptic it might be. Jack got a real big whiff of the food. Hungry? Man, I’m stomach-aching hungry, low blood sugar hungry, almost shaking. God knows the last time I ate.
“Water? There’s water around here, right?” Jack remembered the line of trees and the river. “I’m so thirsty my tongue is swelling.”
“I’ll have you some water quicker than corn through a short dog.”
Murphy motioned Jack to follow him into the house. Entering, Jack looked around. It was dark and bare, but clean and airy. The main room served as the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The walls, the ceilings, and floor all seemed cut from the same rough wood with the floor buffed shiny and smooth in the worn places. There was a huge river-rock fireplace in the center of the room, evidently used both for warmth and for cooking because a steaming pot hung by a metal swing arm over the fire. The smell of cooked pork, garlic, and leeks made Jack swoon.
Murphy placed his rifle on a table made of pine boards with X-shaped trestle legs. He went to a sink that looked like the bottom third of a giant whisky cask. Two lead pipes with spigots came through the wall at the top of the tub, and underneath, a larger lead pipe drained the tub. Murphy grabbed a piece of cloth that looked as if it had had a former life as a shirt. He helped Jack clean his head wound, scrubbing hard with warm water from the tap.
“Does that surprise you? Not many folk have hot water right out of a pipe. I use a black cistern with a glass top, mounted on the roof, and let the sun warm the water. I made it myself.”
“Great! You’ve gone green; nice to see you’re doing your part to save the planet.”
“Green? The heat from the sun kills all the algae. Humph. You’re a hard son of a bitch to impress.”
“No offense, but what was I supposed to be impressed with?”
“Electric fence, hot and cold running indoor water. I’ve even got a privy in the bedroom over there.”
“Good.” Jack raised one eyebrow as if to say ‘what?’ “That’s cool.”
“Cool? I think it’s slicker than snot on a glass doorknob, if you ask me! I made them all myself. Here, look at this.” Murphy walked to the wall where two bare wires ran up across the ceiling and over to an arc lamp. He flipped a toggle switch and turned on the light. It sparked, caught hold and lit the room with a smelly sulfuric glow.
He smiled smugly and wiggled both his eyebrows up and down at Jack.
“What?” Jack said exasperated. “Yes, you’re quite the inventor.”
“Actually, I’m a lawyer, but I’ve always been a tinkerer.” The old ma
n squinted and examined Jack’s forehead. “Looks like you’ll live, a little dinged up, but passable,” Murphy said.
“A lawyer huh?” Jack looked around the house. A couple of board shelves held a few dishes, a pot, and some tin canisters that had been nailed to the wall. Jack saw no refrigerator or anything even resembling an icebox. “Why do you choose to live like this?”
Murphy looked around the room rather proudly, “Like what?” he asked defensively.
Jack felt bad and changed his tack. “Um, secluded.”
The smile left Murphy’s face and he looked away.
He’d pushed the old guy too far and he felt bad for it. The man may have been crazy, but he was harmless, and he meant well.
Murphy walked silently to the fireplace and stirred the heavy cooking pot. He seemed to stow himself after a while. “Here you go,” he said placing a plateful of something in front of Jack.
“What is this?” Jack asked.
“Hog and hominy,” Murphy said. His face finally cracked and he gave a slight smile as he set his own plate on the other side of the table. “It may be nigger food, but when you’re hungry, any food is good food. Get some of this in and you’ll be finer 'n frog hair and twice as fluffy.”
It tasted like a form of cream of wheat, with salty pork and chunks of garlic and crunchy leeks. It felt good to eat.
“You must be from New York,” Murphy finally got around to asking.
“Why do you say that?”
“The mighty strange way you’re dressed.”
Athletic shoes, jeans, a long-sleeved button-down shirt and a sport coat? Jack wondered what was so strange about it. He noticed the old man staring at his shoes.
“Don’t ever recall seeing curious footwear like that before.”
Jack thought, A pair of neon green Nike running shoes and this guy is amazed? But then the way this old dude was dressed and living in this shack in the middle of nowhere—thinking that his family was killed by Indians—no wonder a pair of sneakers astonished him!
After eating, Jack felt as though he was truly returning to himself. “So how do I get to Norfolk?” he asked.
“Follow Broad Creek around the top and save yourself a bunch of time by crossing on the railroad trestle.”
“You’re telling me that river out there is Broad Creek?”
“Sure as you’re born. Come on outside and I’ll show you the way.” They walked to the top of a small rise. Murphy said, “It’s about an hour’s walk. If you don’t have a hitch in your git-a-long.”
“An hour?”
“Probably more like two. Could be as long as four if you get lost, though. It's like a woman with a nosebleed—if it ain't one damn thing, it's another, I suppose.” Old Murphy laughed. I’m just foolin’ with you.”
"So if I walk at about three-and-a-half miles an hour, give or take, are you telling me that we're about three miles away from town?"
"Give or take, could be closer to five or six. See that line of trees out yonder and how they curve right?”
Jack squinted and saw what he was talking about. “Yeah.”
“Well, you’re looking for a path that curves left. It’s going to look like it’s taking you to the right, into the water, but don’t worry. You might see my electric tide generator there and know you’re on the right track. Follow the path and just before you get down to the eastern branch of the Elizabeth River, there’ll be the track for the Norfolk and Virginia railroad. Cross that span, follow the tracks and you’ll be in downtown Norfolk.”
"Even if we were ten miles away, we should be able to see the Bank of Hampton Roads building—it’s like thirty stories high."
Murphy laughed. "Seems to me you're the one with thirty stories. I don't know this Bank of Hampton Roads from nothing, not that I have much need for banking any more. The only bank I know of is the Sanger Brothers’ Bank."
Jack inwardly shook with frustration. This was getting him nowhere. He thought he would try one more time. "Is there a road anywhere around here, a paved road, maybe an expressway, someplace I could use a phone, get some help?"
Murphy eyed Jack and once again stroked his beard. "Son, I think you might still be disorien-tated from your recent calamity. Your life might be moving too fast. Just keep your head down, don’t look around too much, and perhaps a little fresh air on your walk will straighten your thoughts."
Jack shrugged. “Life does move pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Murphy said, “That’s nice.”
“What’s nice?” Jack asked.
“That quote. Is it from Ralph Waldo Emerson?”
“No.” Jack smiled. “It’s from Ferris Bueller.” It was clear he’d get no further talking to the old man. “Thanks for all your hospitality, Mr. McCord.”
“It’s Murphy, and the pleasure was all mine. Stop by again and we’ll palaver some more.”
CHAPTER 4
Norfolk, VA
The line of trees swung right and followed what looked to be the river and he stayed left like the old man had said. Just as McCord had warned, the path he was on was appeared to be leading right to the water’s edge, but then it turned down along the river. A narrow path ran between a small body of water and the river. During high tide, this would flood, connecting the two bodies of water. As Jack walked, he sunk in muck nearly to his ankles. His neon green shoes were now a subdued brown. Then, in front of him, was the high train trestle and bridge. It looked mighty strange.
The bridge appeared strong and sturdy, but except for the rails, it was completely made of wood. It looked like new construction he remembered seeing one time at Pioneer Village in Busch Gardens. He climbed up onto the tracks.
Wait a minute! If this is Broad Creek and that’s the eastern branch of the Elizabeth River, right next to these tracks should be eight lanes of I-264. He turned around and looked toward the east and what should have been Military Highway but the tracks disappeared into thick woods. He turned to the west and, about a mile away, he could see another smaller bridge and a small village beyond that. This is completely wrong. This can’t be Broad Creek, that can’t be the Elizabeth River, and that certainly can’t be Norfolk.
He listened carefully for trains before starting across the twelve-hundred-foot span. I’d hate to get caught in the middle of this thing with a train coming.
The long river grass gave way to more closely cropped fields, fields where grazing animals fed. Out of this empty land, slapdash farmhouses rose up, surrounded by poorly kept barns and outbuildings, each of them like a gray wooden dagger plunged into the earth. Further from the river, pig yards, corn and cotton fields, dogs, sheep, and people populated more of his vision with every step he took. The people and homes looked like they were Amish. He saw a man with a horse-drawn plow turning over dirt on a small plot of land. He felt as if he were coming up on one of those towns like Williamsburg, which presented itself as an historical exhibit to lure in and “educate” tourists.
As he got closer, he could see rutted dirt streets and wooden sidewalks. Now it looked less like a tourist trap and more like an old portside town, from an old black-and-white movie on late-night TV. While small, the town was a flurry of activity. The smell of wood smoke and animal waste filled his nose; pigs, dogs, and children ran free. He thought his heart would stop as he approached a small wooden sign that proclaimed “Welcome to Norfolk, Virginia—a Seely Corporation City.” Was this some kind of joke? Or was it a movie set? What he’d thought were telephone or electrical poles were actually stamped “American Telegraph Company.”
He was in Norfolk, some out-of-time, weird-ass, Twilight-Zone version of the town he’d known all his life. Some of the street names he recognized, some not. There was an energetic bustle to the place.
He walked like a zombie through the streets, feeling sick to his stomach. Somehow, he understood this was neither a tourist village nor a movie set. This was something else entirely, something even stranger. H
e saw plenty of people but couldn’t bring himself to speak to anyone. They were all dressed in period clothing from the 1800s. He got more than a few strange looks. Widewater Street ran along the docks and a street in from the water was called Main. He angled up Main until he got to Market Square. The biggest building in Market Square was the Sanger Brothers’ Store.
He approached the dry goods store, and on a rack in the front was a copy of a newspaper called the Norfolk Daily Dispatch. His heart quaked when he read the headline: “Threat of War between the North and South.” The date on it was Monday, February 15, 1856.
He stumbled through the front door. The store looked like something out of an old photograph. There were aisles of over-stacked shelves filled with clothing, kitchenware, and canned goods—things Jack had never seen before outside of a museum. Smells of wool, pickle juice, woodsmoke, moldy cheese and leather goods assaulted him from every direction. The walls closed in on him; the room became dark and stuffy. He had to catch his balance. He leaned against a shelf. Bright sunlight blazed through the big front windows, but shadows seem to dominate amid the stacks of goods and the chaos of the interior.
The shopkeeper eyed him warily. He realized at once that coming in had been a mistake. He needed to leave, but he needed more to understand. He tripped into a display of tin cooking pots and sent them tumbling to the ground. After trying to right the fallen items, he gave up in frustration. He was more rattled than ever before in his life.
Ignoring the clerk, he made his way back to the street and found a bench in the town square. 1856! This is insane! What can I do? Who can I talk to? Time travel? Ridiculous!
Jack’s life was ruled by logic and there wasn’t a logical explanation for this situation. By this point he understood that a movie set or an elaborate prank were out of the question. Injury-induced dementia could be a real possibility though. He knew that severe blows to the head could cause changes in personality, emotions, and perception. The more he thought about it, the better this theory felt, but there was one part of this hypothesis that disturbed him. He knew that if the injury was not too severe, the symptoms could lessen over time. But they could also get worse.
