“Son, what happened?” said Ma, aghast.
“Damn coon gnawed on his arm,” Clyde said.
After a moment of staring in stunned silence, Clyde yelled, “Damn it, Billie, don’t jes’ stand there, git some water and clean ’im up!”
Clyde left the kitchen for the living room, leaning the single-shot rifle against the corner of the fireplace. He began rummaging in a closet searching for a box.
Billie took a hand towel, folded it to a flat pad and held it under the cool, running well water of the pump. She went to Sonny, her hands trembling, as she held the wet cloth against the wounds, pressing gently. Then, with a circular motion, she wiped the area of the injury. She took a linen cloth, biting an edge, preparing to tear it into strips.
Clyde returned with a mason jar containing some of his one hundred-eighty proof moonshine alcohol. He poured some into his open palm, then splashed a generous amount on Sonny’s forearm. With a flinch, Sonny moaned.
Dorian retired to the smokehouse. He opened the top drawer of the chest, took out the cigar box and placed it on top of the dresser. Opening the box, he looked inside, just to reassure himself that the time-portation device was still where he had left it. He lifted the device from the box, holding it by the chain. It swung like a pendulum for a moment as Dorian stared at it.
Outside, Amber wandered along the path to the smokehouse. She stopped at the window, peeking inside. Her eyebrows raised, she saw Dorian looking at the strange object, which she took be a beautiful necklace. The gold glinted in the faint candlelight, and the large ruby shown like a red star. She had seen nothing finer. And, although she assumed it was mere necklace, she was moved by its beauty.
With a small sigh, Dorian put the device back into the cigar box. Suddenly he felt very tired. He unbuttoned his shirt and sat on the bed to remove his shoes. There was a soft knock at the door. Blinking, he opened it to see Amber. Abruptly he closed the door on her, racing to put the cigar box away into the top drawer. Amber opened the door herself, entering the room slowly. Dorian was quite surprised to see her.
“Amber, what are you doing up so late?” he said, shutting the drawer.
“I brought you something to eat.” She held out a bright, shiny apple.
Dorian looked at her for a moment, then chuckled to himself.
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“What’s funny?”
“Reminds me of something I read, you know, Adam and Eve.”
“I ain’t never done much readin’ myself.”
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Jes’ makin’ sure you’re comfortable.” She fanned her face with a piece of cardboard, hoping the mere movement of her hand would make her appear elegant. She adjusted the sleeves on her dress to bring the neckline down lower, exposing her shoulders. With a flicker of her green eyes, her hand moved to the upper part of her dress, thumb and index finger moving along the seam above her breast in a zippering motion. Then her fingertips traveled down provocatively across one breast. “Well, are ya?” Amber continued.
“What?”
“Comfortable.”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Mind if I sit down?” she asked, pouting a bit.
Dorian glanced out the window. He appeared worried that they may be seen together. “I was just getting ready for bed,” he said a bit quickly.
Amber paid him no mind. She gracefully settled down in an old wicker-backed chair in front of him, her emerald eyes dancing with delight and curiosity. She studied him for a moment and grinned, sensing he was uncomfortable by her presence, which she seemed to enjoy. Amber had developed a taste for adventure, a chance for a display of flirtation. In the past, she had suffered a lack of attention from boys and wondered if she lacked the sort of fire or self-awareness that would fascinate men. She gave him a pixie’s smile and got up from the wicker chair, sitting quickly on the side of the bed next to Dorian.
“Don’t ya like me?” she asked.
Amber rested her elbow on his shoulder and leaned in front of him, touching his face, rubbing his cheeks with the back of her fingers. Suddenly, Dorian stood up from the bed.
“Yes, I do like you. But it’s late. Maybe you shouldn’t be here?”
“Why don’t ya come here and sit next to me? I won’t bite.”
“Somebody might see you here.”
“Don’t be worrin’ about Billie. Ain’t I as good-lookin’ as she?”
Amber stood and walked to the mirror hanging above the washstand, looking at the reflection of Dorian and herself in the mirror. She took a bite of the apple.
“If a girl eats an apple, while looking in a mirror at midnight, an image of her true love will appear over her left shoulder.”
“Where did you hear that?” Dorian asked.
“It’s true. Ma says stuff like that is jes’ Ozark folklore.”
Suddenly, Billie burst in through the door. She looked at Dorian, then at Amber.
“Ma wants you to come in now, Amber,” Billie said, her arms pressed tightly against her sides.
“She never said no such thing,” Amber replied, aggravated.
“It’s past time you bein’ up.”
“Yer still up.”
Billie started toward the door, then turned to Amber. “I’m tellin’ Pa,” she told her younger sister.
Amber stomped to the door, disgusted. Both Amber and Billie left without looking back.
Relieved to finally be alone, Dorian went immediately to bed, his mind much too occupied for sleep. He laid awake much of the night, pondering the events of the day. The moon was full, and he watched the shadows of a tree just outside the window dance around the room as the night wind stirred the leaves. The last time he had slept was in his familiar bed, the night before going to the Quantum Institute to begin the adventure. The course of two thousand years would pass since he last closed his eyes for sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
A New Way of Life
Dorian was awakened at the crack of dawn by the sound of a freight train rumbling down the tracks, blowing its whistle. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, looking around the room. Unwillingly, he got up and started putting on the borrowed clothes, glancing out the window. The morning air was fresh and clean. Across the road in the valley, a dense mist hung in the air, a thin, translucent fog. A delightful morning, bright and fine, the eastern sky glowed pink, the red streak of dawn extending to the horizon. A rooster crowed from a fence in the barnyard.
He walked unsteadily to the washstand to wash his face. An old kerosene lamp with a cracked chimney, a chipped pitcher and a bowl had been placed there early in the morning while he slept, along with a razor and shaving mug. He thought that perhaps Billie or Amber had bought the things for him before they began their morning chores. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher and drank it down slowly. Putting water into the bowl, he bathed his face in the cool, refreshing liquid. There was the usual dawn chorus of the birds, as Dorian stepped from the smokehouse into the misty softness of the morning, still sleepy-eyed, to greet the sunrise.
Dorian