(Note: This scene doesn't follow sequence with the last two I've posted from this story. I liked the scene and it's fun, and by the looks of the 'page views' for Lost Life scenes, no one's going to notice anyway.)
Following behind Eliza a little ways, as to maintain her trust that he wouldn’t hurt her or try anything, together they made it to the fantastic yet humble house in which she and her family stayed. Grant thought it would be a one room log cabin that he had read about in elementary school. It was much larger than that, having at least 4 distinct rooms. The roof consisted of fancy red curved shingles, that had to have been imported from elsewhere. It had taken them about 10 minutes to arrive there, but all along the way, Grant had not seen one other person or structure. Thinking about it, he hadn’t seen an animal either, besides the dazzling red cardinal he had spied right before he had driven into this different world.
Coming upon a small path that lead to the house, Grant broke the silence. “So, what year is it currently, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“1851,” she answered, turning back to him for a brief moment to say it. Using what knowledge he had of history from his college days, he began to think what this might mean. If, that is, he was in the same 1851 about which his textbooks had spoken. He remembered that the president at the time was Fillmore, the last Whig to hold office. Having always idolized Abraham Lincoln, he was slightly bummed he hadn’t landed in some other dimension of 1861 when Lincoln claimed the White House. There were no cars, no TV, and not even radio yet. If he was in the 1851 he knew about, slavery was still alive and well. A shiver ran through his body. Clasping his hand over his mouth briefly, he shuddered, thinking What has happened?
Without realizing it, they were at the front door of the giant shack. “Come in,” Eliza invited, opened the door before him, and revealed what might have been considered ‘luxury’ in the mid 1800s. Beautiful, plush oriental rugs adorned the floors and a large, elegantly carved table rested on top of it. On the other side of this large room, many chairs sat in a semi-circle. They must have been for family story-telling or for Bible study. Grant was only assuming they read the Bible, but he felt safe in that assumption.
“Would you like some tea?” she inquired, as she rushed off into the kitchen. There was already a modest fire going in the fireplace near the circle of chairs.
“Yes, that would be great,” he mumbled in response, still trying to piece everything together. Becoming antsy, he asked, “When can we see this magic woman you were talking about?”
“As soon as you’d like.” She hung a tea pot above the fire and sat next to him at the large table. Smiling, she looked like a mother. “Finish your tea first.” Neatening up her braid, she went on. “She’s a mystic, but she would rather be called a sorceress. Her name is Prudence, but don’t ever say it to her face.” Laughing gleefully, she continued, “Call her Prudy, if you please.”
“What does she do exactly?” Magic and witchcraft were all considered to be hogwash where he came from; he figured here, those of the magical arts might be highly revered like a doctor or healer.
“She can foresee events and she can talk to the dead.” Her voice sounding grave, she looked away suddenly, out the window. “Sometimes she can read minds, which comes in handy when someone has committed a crime.”
“Can she answer questions about a person’s past?” This was really what Grant wanted to ask her: Where did I come from? Why am I here? Is there a purpose to my arrival in this world?
“Oh, yes, of course. She does that mostly for fun and for family history purposes.” Standing up at the sound of a high pitched whistle, she rushed over to the tea pot and lifted it from the fire. “Tea’s done!” she announced, sat the pot on the table while she kept on going to the china cabinet for two tea cups and saucers.
Pouring some tea into the cup in front of him, she spoke some more. “Prudy is really, oh, I don’t know, peculiar. I think her special powers make her just that much different from us, that she may feel like an outcast. Because of that, she lives off in the woods, at the bottom of the dell by the swampy pond.”
Grant smiled at this and thought jovially, Oh, we aren’t in the woods now? Then he thought of a saying that his mother had often said, We aren’t out of the woods yet. How appropriate that was for him in that moment.
Clearing her throat after taking a dainty sip of her tea, she looked him straight in the face. Again she asked, “May I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“I think you’re telling the truth.”
“Oh, really...?”
“Yes,” she cut in. “I’m not sure how to describe it, but you’re different. I don’t mean how your clothes are different or your accent but... it seems to me like your voice echoes, like you’re speaking in a cave.” Bringing her hand up to her face, she felt her blood rush into her cheeks. She had never spoken so openly with a man, especially a stranger. “And when you walk, it’s like you aren’t touching the ground. When I first saw you, it was like you were levitated off the ground by the smallest amount. On the dirt road where you stood, you left no foot impressions.” Swallowing hard, she concluded with, “You aren’t from this world.”
Ruminating over this for a second, he replied, “That’s an interesting thought. Who is your president?”
She looked puzzled, so he rephrased his question, “Does your country have a ruler? What is your country called?”
“Well,” she said, tilting her head slightly and looking to the ceiling in thought. “This is the Ohio Territory. All the territories put together is called the United Territories of England. We are ruled over by Queen Victoria.”
The only thought his brain could muster was Oh my God. Staring at her, he gasped and sat back in his chair, his hands falling limply to his lap. His stomach did a flip flop that made him want to gag. In what kind of place was he? He needed to get to that mystic woman, Prudy, and double quick.
Covering her heart with her hand softly, she said, “Oh dear, what have I said? What’s the matter?”
Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. “You’re right. I’m from a different world. In the world I’m from, in the year 1851, none of what you said is true. Not one detail.”
“Oh, my word!” she exclaimed. “Why do you think...?”
“I don’t know,” Grant stated solemnly. “I need to see the sorceress. Now.” Gulping down the rest of his tea, it burned his tongue, but the warmth felt good. His near death experience the night before had left him with a strange perpetual chill. Setting down his cup a little too hard, it startled Eliza into spilling her tea a little bit. Keeping her composure, she set down the tea and left the room to find a rag to wipe it up with, wordless.
Annoyed with himself for the outburst, he covered his eyes with both hands and propped his elbows up on the table. Digging the heels of his hands into his eyes hard he rubbed back and forth. Once again he wished that when he took his hands away, the little house, the tea cups, the spring forest, and Eliza would all be gone. But when he did so and his vision cleared, he was still sitting in the fancy log cabin in the middle of an 1851 no one had ever heard of.
When Eliza returned, she held a white wash rag in her right hand, and dabbed at the spill. Grant could tell that she was stirred up, maybe confused, maybe fascinated, he couldn’t tell. Leaving the rag on the table, folded in quarters, she said, “Let’s go then. I can tell you are anxious to get answers.”
“Yes, I am.” After a moment he added, “I’m sorry if I startled you. I’ve had a long and terrible day.”
A half smile teased the corner of her lips. Sighing, she said, “It’s okay. I’ve been a little nervous, if you can’t tell. We don’t get many visitors, especially not any from different worlds.” Straightening up her dress, she said, “Come on, I’ll show you to Prudy’s hut.”
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
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