Christopher's Journey: Sometimes it takes being lost to find yourself

  Chapter 5

  Chris woke up the next morning stiff and sore. ‘What a dream!’ he thought before prying his eyes open. He tried to roll to his side and felt the crossing ropes dig into his ribs. Shivers ran over his goose bumped skin and his body screamed for food and water.

  “I’m still here.” he said in defeat.

  At that very moment he heard horses hooves and the racket of wagon wheels. Chris slowly rose from his bed to go meet who had stopped in front of the soddy. Mr. Kinsley was the only one who knew anything about him.

  Chris was surprised to see another man climbing down from the wagon bench. This man was as tall as Mr. Kinsley but had broad shoulders and was thick throughout. His hair was shorter and he wore only a mustache, no beard. He wore the same style clothing but his seemed of better quality or at least better maintained.

  Chris hoped this was not Mr. Horton coming back to reclaim his home, find him there and throw him out by the seat of his pants. Chris did not want a confrontation, he just needed a place to rest until he could figure out how to get home.

  “Christopher Scholt?”

  Chris’ eyes popped. How did this stranger know his name? “It’s CHRIS.” he said through clenched teeth. “How did you know my name?”

  “I heard about you from Louis Kinsley. Seems he tried helping you out yesterday and you ran off on him. He told me you might be here.”

  “and?” Chris sneered.

  “I’m George Browley, my family and I own the Browley farm down the road and as of three days ago, I now own this entire property including this here sod house.”

  “Mr. Kinsley said that Mr. and Mrs. Horton own it and they took off South without selling.” Chris added as if it were his business.

  “Well, that was the case, son…” ‘son.. Ugh!’ “… but see, I’ve been in contact with Mr. Horton and he decided to sell to me since I have the adjoining property. That now doubles my crop. The sale was final last Friday. So, it seems we have a problem.”

  "What problem?!” Chris felt the urge to lunge at him but restrained himself.

  “Well, it looks like you’re trespassing on my property.”

  Chris stood there, mouth gapped open. “Where do you expect me to go?” He snapped.

  “How far are you from home?”

  ‘Oh, I don’t know… about 130 years!’ Chris thought.

  “I can’t go back.” Chris finally said. What he really meant was that he didn’t know how.

  “You’re not in trouble with the law, are ya Christopher?”

  “It’s CHRIS!”

  “Christopher is your given birth name, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, but I prefer Chris. Why does no one feel they can respect that here?”

  “My apologies, Chris, but you haven’t answered my question. Are you runnin’ from the law?”

  ‘Not anymore.’ Chris thought better. “No.” he replied.

  “You plan on staying in these parts?”

  “I suppose I don’t have a choice.” Chris grumbled with glaring eyes.

  “I have a proposition for you then.”

  “What kind of proposition?” Chris didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep, hunger or the confusion of the situation but he could feel his insides begin to boil. He hated this man when he’d given him little reason to. ‘I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!’ screamed inside Chris’ head. ‘I’m the one who needs help and this joker wants something from me?’

  “I’m willing to let you live here in this soddy if you come and help on my family’s farm as payment.” Mr. Browley continued.

  ‘Oh,’ Chris thought. ‘I get to stay here in this bed-less, heatless crap hole in the Earth if I come and bust my back at your stupid farm?’ “No deal!” Chris snipped. “Even though I can’t get home right now, I still need to try.”

  “No need to get course with me, son. Just puttin’ the offer on the table.”

  “I’ll just be on my way then.” Chris replied, calmer but still with some attitude in his voice.

  “Now hold it right there a minute.” Mr. Browley continued. “I’ll be willing to do one more thing for you that I hope you’ll accept.”

  ‘Doubtful!’

  “Makes no sense for you to be travelin’ out when the West looks black as coal. There’s a storm comin’. You can stay here one more night and head out in the morning if that’s what you still choose.”

  ‘No way!’ Chris thought until he looked over the trees to the West. Sure enough, there was a wall of darkness creeping in like someone had draped black satin over the Earth. “I guess one more night. But what good is this shelter from a storm without a door or window?”

  “Well, since the openings face the South, it shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll be out tomorrow to see if you’ve gone or if you’ve changed your mind about my offer.”

  “Whatever! I won’t be here!” Chris exclaimed.

  Mr. Browley tossed him a stern look which wrinkled his brow. Without another word, he turned, climbed the wagon wheel to resume his seat on the high-rise bench. He gave the reins a quick snap and clicked his tongue. The horses crept forward, walked in to the field and around again to go in the opposite direction. They acted as though they knew exactly where home was.

  Chris scoffed as he glared down the road until Mr. Browley was out of sight.

  “The nerve of these people! That wasn’t a fair exchange at all and he knew it! Hours of blood, sweat and tears just to live in this tiny hole in a hill? I might as well be back in prison. At least there, I could eat, watch TV and have a better bed than I have here! He’s just trying to take advantage of me cause I’m new. I may be young but I’m NOT stupid!”

  Chris turned and took his anger out on trying to collect more grass. It seemed more stubborn than before, either that or Chris was weaker. He bent his aching back backward to stretch it, looking around. He again noticed that tiny shed behind the soddy.

  “Maybe there are tools in there that could help me with this grass.”

  He just needed a little more to pile on the bed frame to make tonight better than last night. If he was to set out on an endless, pointless journey tomorrow, he needed some rest.

  He trudged up the hill and across the way to the shed. Still upset with his conversation with Mr. Browley and the entire situation, he violently whipped open the door. Through the cloud of flies that swarmed him and the horrible stench, all he saw was a box built onto the ground inside the shed with a hole in the top center.

  “An outhouse?!”

  Chris turned and fell to his knees. He began to heave but his empty stomach failed to provide a single thing for him to throw up.

  His insides boiled out of control as he could feel the anger bubble to the top and erupting like a volcano.

  “AAAHHHHH!!!! WHY am I here?! WHY me?!” Chris shook his fists toward the sky. “I asked for your help and your guidance and this is what you do to me?! You’re not a merciful God, like Grandma taught me, to put me out here to die of starvation and thirst! I DON’T NEED YOU! I’ll do this on my own! I’ll find my own way home!”

  Chris fell to the ground weak with despair. He felt all his strength, all of his hope drift away from his near lifeless body. If he was home, he would be to the point of crime again. The only way to survive, breaking into a convenience store after closing would provide him with something to eat and drink. If desperate enough, he’d break into the cash register taking at least enough to get a cheap but more comfortable motel bed.

  A sudden, strong gust of wind nearly blew Chris over as he struggled to get back onto his feet. Last fall’s leaves swirled in circles around him as the blackened sky lit up with multiple lightning bolts. Thunder rumbled the ground beneath him as the wind picked up speed. His clothes glued to his front as they whipped and flowed behind him, he pushed against the fury trying to reach the soddy.

  Reaching the top of the hill, Chris was forced back down to his knees as
the blasts were impossible to walk against. Leaves, dirt and twigs whizzed past his head. The trees bent in half and the prairie grasses now laid flat. Chris could barely keep his eyes open to see where he was going. Suddenly, something struck him and sliced his arm. The force of the impact knocked him down as he rolled down the side of the hill, crawling through the unprotected doorway of the sod house. He huddled in-between the bed and the iron stove, he grasped his arm which spewed blood.

  The dirt wall behind him began to rumble as the wind squealed like an out of control train. The legs of the table and chairs shook and vibrated, moving around as if they had their own minds and were trying to escape the squall.

  Against what Mr. Browley had stated, the South facing opening of the shelter yielded no protection from the intensity of the storm. Debris seemed to know exactly where to enter the home and whirled around the room striking anything in it’s way.

  Chris looked around the room which seemed possessed, scouring for another place to hide. Under the table, under the bed? Would the iron stove offer more protection or be more of a danger to be around? Surely being in the deepest part of the hill would offer him more protection. Under the bed. Chris got to his knees to crawl under when he felt a numbing blow to the back of his head. Then… darkness.

  Chris woke to a cold cloth being pressed against his forehead. He tried to move his weak body which ached immensely. He couldn't seem to lift his arms, open his eyes or even speak.

  "There, there... just relax." a soothing voice whispered.

  "G..rand..ma?" he forced out.

  "No, sweetheart." came the female voice again.

  Chris did not recognize the voice but the comfort in her tone set him at ease. He wasn't laying on hard ropes but on a fluffy pad. The room was warm and through the heavy scent of kerosene, he could smell bread baking. He didn't know if he was alive or dead, he didn't know what year it was, he didn't know what had happened to him.

  He could recall the storm and the debris flying around the sod house but everything since had gone black, as black as the sky before the storm hit. Had it all been a dream?

  He pried his eyes open just a crack and had to take a moment to allow them to focus. He was in a small room, no larger than his mother's bedroom in their apartment. At the foot of the bed he noticed, through the window, the dusty light. It was either dawn or dusk. The kerosene lamp on the bedside table dimly lit the room as well as giving off some much needed heat. Chris' body felt half dead. The only movement it seemed to allow were shivers.

  He glanced up at his care taker. She was a middle aged woman, plump but with a smooth, attractive face. Her hair was swept up and came together in a bulky but neat bun. She wore a full dress with an apron tied around her middle. Her smile helped warm the room.

  "Who... are... you?" Chris struggled getting each word to come out.

  "Save your strength, I want you to try to take in some of this broth." She helped prop him just a little by adding one more pillow under his head and began spoon feeding him chicken flavored water. Just the warmth and wetness of it seemed to fuel his body.

  "My name is Ruth Browley. You met my husband, George, several days ago..."

  "I... met him... yesterday.."

  "No, you met him earlier this week, you've been here, sleeping, since the morning after the tornado, which was over three days ago. Mr. Browley headed to the sod house the next morning to see if you were alright and found you lying on the floor. You had blood coming from your arm and from both sides of your head. We figure you were hit in the back of the head with the table that detached from the wall and you must of hit your forehead on the bed frame on your way down... hard enough to render you unconscious. Mr. Browley was very concerned for you, so he brought you home with him. We‘ve been caring for you since. I‘m relieved to see you awake, I‘m sure everyone will be.”

  Chris’ head ached, not only from the wounds but trying to register all of the information just given to him. He lifted his head as much as he could to take in another spoonful of broth. He let it slide down, soothing his dry, scratchy throat.

  “A tornado?”

  “Yes, we do get them often in the spring months, here, but they are rarely that large, the path around the sod house is evident. It didn’t seem to hit any other area. We’re grateful for our property and that the twister didn’t hit town. Seems it was coming after only you.” she said with a joking chuckle.

  “It may have been.” Chris stated, remembering his fist shaking and angry shouting.

  “What on Earth do you mean?” Mrs. Browley’s grin turned solemn.

  “Right before the storm hit, I cursed God and told him I didn’t need him, I could find my way out of here. Do you think this is my punishment?”

  “Not a punishment, Christopher. Perhaps this was God’s way of reminding you that you cannot rely on your own strength, you do need Him and He may be telling you that this is where He wants you to be.”

  Chris ignored the fact that she had called him Christopher. “There could have been another way to do that.”

  “The good Lord knows what we will and will not listen to, this was His way of reaching you... It is up to you if you decide to trust and obey or not.”

  Chris took one more spoonful and laid his head back, closing his eyes.

  “You rest a bit. I will send Mr. Browley up a little later to check on you.” Mrs. Browley removed the second pillow, tucked the quilt up around his shoulders and swept a lock of hair out of Chris’ face. With floating grace, she got up and walked out of the room.

  Chris tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t stop thinking of what Mrs. Browley had said about God trying to get his attention.

  “You’ve got it. Now what do you want me to do?” he whispered.

  Then, he slept.

  The next time he woke, sunshine streamed through the window. Not knowing if it was dawn or dusk last time he was awake, he could have slept through the night or just a few hours. Or a day and a half for all he knew.

  He could hear some commotion outside of the room he’d laid in almost a week. He heard grown up voices, kids voices, male and female voices. Footsteps seemed to be running up or down stairs. He smelled bacon frying and a hint of coffee.

  ‘It must be morning.’ he thought.

  It took all he could muster to accomplish the seemingly difficult job to sit up. When he flipped over his blanket, he was mortified to see that he was no longer dressed. He wore only a long, nighty looking thing. He still had his boxers on, though, which was the only thing that made him feel a little relieved.

  The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs made Chris dress faster than he ever had. His clothes that laid over the chair in the corner of the small room smelled fresh and clean. They were pressed and folded neatly. He whipped on his pants and barely had his shirt over his head when he heard a soft knock on the door. Clenching his teeth through the pain of lifting his wounded arm and pulling his shirt over the bandages wrapped around his head, he quietly muttered for whoever was at the door to come in.

  Mr. Browley, the man he'd briefly met days ago, entered but he wasn't alone.

  "Chris." Mr. Browley began. "How are you feeling?"

  "Fine, I guess." Chris muttered still holding a grudge for this man.

  "I'd like you to meet the Pastor of Coar. Mr. Franklin Walling. He has been watching over you this past week."

  Chris' eyebrows wrinkled in. Watching him? What was that supposed to mean?

  "We've been awfully worried about you, son." Pastor Walling stated noticing the scowl on Chris' face at the word 'son'. "We thought for a couple of days that the Lord was calling you home."

  "Maybe he should have!" Chris grumbled. "He's the one that did this to me."

  "What do you mean?" the pastor asked, concerned.

  "Minutes before the storm hit, I cursed Him. This was surely his revenge."

  "We do not have a revengeful G
od, Christopher. He may have been speaking to you in a lesson sort of way but not in revenge. He loves you and only wants the best for you."

  "My name is CHRIS!" he stated without even acknowledging anything the pastor had said after that. "If I'm going to be stuck here forever, I might as well tattoo my name onto my forehead... along with 'do NOT call me son."

  Mr. Browley and Pastor Walling looked at one another with baffled expressions at the word 'tattoo' but did not question it.

  "Where are you from Chris? How did you get here?" The pastor reluctantly asked.

  Again, Chris had no idea how to answer this question. They would never believe him, they would think he was crazy. How could he tell them that he was from HERE but from 1998? If they had nut houses in 1868, he'd be heading for one, for sure.

  "To tell you the absolute truth, I don't know how I got here." Chris said without any further information.

  "Sounds like you may be suffering from some Amnesia. Do you know where you are?"

  "Coar, I guess. At least that's what everybody keeps telling me."

  "and you don't remember anything from before you woke up here in Coar?"

  Chris paused. Amnesia might be the ticket for him to play to stop all of the 'where are you from' questions. Anything to get the people of this town off his back until he could figure out how to get out of here.

  "Nothing... I remember nothing." Chris lied, but convincingly.