Time & Space: Chapter 8

Seth stood staring back at the man reflected before him, both of their jaws open wide. He let his arm fall to his side and the haggard, mud-covered man in green before him did the same. Behind the man, Seth could see his hostess set a heavy cast iron pot on top of the thick metal stove, the imperfect edges of the oven door flickering with the now billowing flames. Seth turned to see her move from the stove and unhook a thin burlap sack from the wall and set it on the table, a few potatoes spilling from its gaping mouth.

He turned back to the mirror as it finally set in that this strange man was somehow him. Shuddering, Seth turned and moved toward the curtained window looking out at the greyscale village where the pitiful horse still stood unmoving. He could hear thunder in the distance. Frustrated with confusion, he dug his nails into rough wood grain of the window sill. Its damp fibers gave way slightly with a soft, natural crunch beneath his hard nails. The feeling reminded him of when he was younger and would imprint designs in soft timber with a nail while his grandfather would build elaborate tables and furniture.

I’m still me, he thought. I just don’t look like me.

He stared out the window in silence for what felt like an eternity. He told himself this couldn’t be death because it wasn’t final. Death was supposed to answer all your questions, not drop you in the middle of even more of them. As the thunder continued to roll with an unnatural rhythm, Seth turned to notice the woman had finished cutting the potatoes and was plopping the pieces into rolling surface of the liquid-filled pot.

“Can I help?” his voice seemed harsh as it cut through the thick silence between them. Her head snapped in his direction, a confused look on her face. He walked over and picked up an unused potato and motioned like he was cutting it with the knife. “Help. Cook.”

Her eyebrows relaxed and she pointed to another sack hanging on a peg on the wall. He moved to grab it and found that it was full of carrots. He sat down and began chopping them slowly, ensuring each slice maintained the same width. The extra effort took his mind off of the nagging questions about where and when he was that tempted him away from his sanity.

He finished and scooped up a handful of the small orange disks, offering them to the woman who stood back gesturing to the pot. As they splashed in, he could smell the rich, salty scent of broth. He wanted to speak to her but had no clue where to begin. He couldn’t even guess at what language she had spoken earlier, and she only seemed to understand singular, obvious words when coupled with strong gestures.

“Where are we?” he said, slow and exaggerated. She glared at him blankly for a few seconds then returned to her pot, stirring the carrots into a swirl. Seth moved around the stove to catch her eye again and repeated himself.

“Where?” he shrugged she shoulders and looked left and right. “Are?” he pointed up with one finger and moved it in a wide arc over his head. “We?” he pointed to her, then back to himself, then at the ground. He ended the charade with another shrug and stood there staring at her, hopeful. She raised an eyebrow and a faint smirk curled one corner of her mouth, obviously amused at the lengths he was taking to ask his question. Her eyes trailed away from him as she processed his signals. After a moment, she turned and entered the door on the far side of the room.

Seth could see a modest bedroom beyond the door frame, neatly arranged and dimly lit by what he assumed was another small window. The woman reemerged moments later and handed him a dirty looking newspaper. It was clearly old, showing worn edges, faded text, and discolored smudges across its face, but the headline still jumped off the page at him: BELGIUM INVADED.

As he skimmed through the articles detailing the political catalysts of the conflict, a small delicate hand reached over the top of the paper, its forefinger pointing to the emboldened BELGIUM in the headline. Seth lowered the paper and saw the woman repeating his motion, sweeping her finger through the air and then pointing at the ground. He understood.

People always said the world wars were hell, I didn’t know they meant literally, Seth thought, still trying to rationalize that he might be in some sort of afterlife.

The woman moved back over to the stove, pulling two small ceramic bowls off a shelf as she passed it and spooned some of the stew she had concocted into each one. Pulling two pewter spoons out of another drawer next to the stove, she moved to the table and sat the bowls opposite one another, spoon protruding over the rim, and gestured Seth towards one.

Without thinking he sat and began shoveling the too-hot vegetable mixture into his mouth. It burned him, scalding his tongue and shocking him out of his impolite and ravenous table manner. He forced the mouthful down with a grimace and looked up, his face guilty.

“I’m very sorry. Please, excuse my manners. I did not realize how hungry I-” he blurted out, only realising too late that she wouldn’t understand a word he said. She stood there staring at him with a mixed look of curiosity and confusion in her eyes, then slowly sat down, not removing her gaze. “Sorry,” he said again, putting his hands together and bowing slightly to pantomime.

“So-rry,” she repeated, inclining her head and placing her hands together hesitantly.

This is hopeless, Seth thought. How I am ever supposed to figure out what is going on here if I can’t communicate. He watched as she finally looked away from him, picked up a meager amount of the stew in her own spoon, blew on it, and took a bite. She had a kind, disarming face that looked worn from too much use. Her lips seemed to curve up naturally at the end, giving her an eternal, soft, smile that was brightened by her light yellow hair. She reminded him of Raychel.

He took another bite of the rapidly cooling stew and thought of her. Had she been hurt? Killed even? Maybe she’s sitting right across from me, as confused as I am and unable to recognize me or communicate with me, he thought. Now, that sounds like hell. He realized then that he remembered his name, in fact, he remember everything about his life before the flash. If this was Raychel, maybe she would too.

“Seth,” he said with unnecessary urgency and volume. She jumped, looking up at him with her jaw clenched and slowly released a withheld breath. Seth noticed that she still seemed to be smiling, faintly.

“Seth,” he said again, pointing to the middle of his chest.

She cocked her head slightly to the right. “Seth,” she said quizzically. She pointed to her own chest, “Seth?”

“No, no. Seth. Me.” He pointed with both hands this time, then extended his right arm and cocked his head to match hers, opening his mouth to signal it was her turn to speak.

She pointed to him and said, “Seth,” then pointed back to herself and said “Yana.”

“Yana,” Seth repeated smiling and nodding his head. “Nice to meet you, Yana.”

Her smile curled higher slightly and she nodded back, breaking out a short giggle at the awkwardness of not fully understanding. She looked down and resumed eating her meal, apparently embarrassed.

He found himself somewhat disappointed that his theory proved to be wrong, unless Yana translated to Raychel in Dutch somehow. That thought wasn’t comforting either because it meant that if she were Raychel, she hadn’t recognized his name.

He took another bite of the stew and swallowed, noticing this time that it was surprisingly flavorful and that he had been incredibly hungry.

“Thank you,” he said, tapping the edge of his bowl with his spoon. “This is good.”

She looked up, smiling and nodding again before returning to her dinner.

I think she understood that, he thought. Maybe we are getting somewhere.

Suddenly, Yana jumped up from the table, moving across the room to the window and peeking cautiously out through the threadbare curtains. Her eyes widened and her smile disappeared entirely.

Turning to Seth, she put her finger over her lips, her face desperate. She moved away from the window as Seth got up to see what had frightened her so. As he got nearer, he could hear a faint rustle and the soft thump and squish of boots in the mud below. She looked at him with begging eyes, waving her hands gesturing for Seth not to come nearer to the window, but his curiosity outweighed his concern. Peeking out the window, Seth saw eleven men, all dressed in the same, soaking, olive green outfit he was wearing, moving around the corner slowly, clearly trying to be silent. Yana tugged at his arm, begging him quietly to move away in words he didn’t know but could easily understand. He ignored her, watching as they moved as one unit, rifles half-ready, bayonets protruding from the barrels. At the back of the line, one stopped and pointed up in his direction.

Seth ducked back from the window not certain what they would do if they saw him, but feeling it couldn’t be good based on Yana’s reaction to seeing the men. He turned as the bedroom door on the far side of the room slammed shut. He could hear Yana shifting things around on the other side.

“Yana,” he said in a half-whisper, his face close to the door. “Yana, who are they? Why are you -”

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

The thick sound of wood on wood came from Yana’s front door. Seth hesitated and noticed Yana had fallen completely silent on the other side of the bedroom door.

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

Seth moved slowly toward the door, trying to be as quiet as possible, and picked up the rifle he had stored behind it. Not sure if the rifle was even loaded, much less how to fire it, he held the gun over his head like a club as he slowly reached for the door handle.

“OPEN UP OR WE BUST THIS DOOR DOWN!”

Seth shook his head as he realized he had understood what they had said. They were speaking English. He let the rifle fall to his side as he reached for the door handle.

“Wait! I’m opening the door,” he said, fumbling with the latch.

The bolt clicked and the door swung in. Seth stood facing three men, two of which had guns trained at the door over either shoulder of the third, who was readying the butt of his rifle to strike the door a third time. Seeing this, Seth dropped his rifle and threw his hands into the air.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

The large, mustached man in the middle who had been pounding on the door groaned, his face contorting with obvious frustration. He stepped forward, grabbing Seth by the collar of his wool fatigues and pulling him close. His sour breath washed over Seth’s face.

“You’ve got a lot of fuckin’ explainin’ to do, Hardwick.”

#fiction #books #creativewriting #novel #writing #creativity