Chapter 17
At about ten in the morning I awoke still in my chair. This time I knew where I was. The remote lay in my lap, my right hand firmly grasping it. The television was now on Fox News, and they were interviewing somebody. Sometime during the night, I must have changed the channel.
I didn't pay much attention to who the guest was. From the way the man dodged answers and talked in circles, I knew he had to be a politician.
I pressed the off button on the remote, pushed myself out of the chair and doddered unsteadily on stiff legs still encased in the too tight jeans into the kitchen. The coffee pot was on and the remains at the bottom resembled dark, liquid mud. I eyed the sludge. Though I was addicted to coffee, drinking what was in the pot was out of the question. First, I'd have to chew it. I began assembling a new pot.
With a fresh pot started, I left for the first of my long walks. It was the most productive thing I had to do all day. It had been years since I strolled through the neighborhood or done anything remotely approaching real exercise, so I didn't push myself. I merely ambled along, hoping to break in the new boots and hoped against hope the blue jeans would stretch a bit more.
Halfway through the walk, I knew I had a problem. My left heel was becoming sore and uncomfortable. I was twenty minutes from home, and nothing was going to get me back except my feet, including the sore one.
"Should have doubled up on the socks," I told myself.
Someplace I read or heard that wearing two pair of socks prevented blisters. Whether it was true or not, I didn't know, and it was too late to find out. I managed to kneel in the tight jeans, without permanently damaging myself, and loosen the strings on the boot. I then turned and began retracing my steps. Before many minutes passed, I stopped and tied them tight again. Loose, the boot rubbed against the sore heel. Tied tighter, it just hurt with each step, but with minimal rubbing.
A little blister wasn't going to keep me from my meeting in Wenham or searching for the town. If necessary, I would put a bandage over the spot, but I would be there.
When I arrived home, I removed the boots and checked my foot. My little blister was a half dollar sized wound, the edge red and nasty looking, covered the outer side of my heel. Pricking the middle with a pin, I drained it and went into my medicine cabinet in search of a band-aid. Naturally, I didn't find any.
I closed the door on the medicine cabinet and saw a familiar figure behind me. My legs suddenly felt too weak to hold me, and I had the now familiar wrenching fear in my gut.
Mary stood, silent and patient as she did each time I saw her. This time her eyes looked down at the blister. She raised them a few seconds later, looked directly at me and said something.
I needed the tape recorder that lay on the kitchen table. I shook my head and managed to say. "I need the recorder. In the kitchen."
She made no effort to move, standing barely three feet from me. I motioned toward the kitchen.
"I need the tape recorder in the kitchen," I said again.
She glanced in the direction I gestured and seemed to drift, or float, back a step or two. I forced my legs to obey and stepped toward her. As I slipped out the door, I was barely a foot away from her. As I passed I was again struck by her size compared to my nearly 6'3" height. She was almost a foot shorter than I was. I estimated she stood about 5'5” tall. It also struck me that Jackie had guessed right. Mary was a solid form rather than being a spirit or ghost. In fact, as I slid by her I picked up the scent of freshly dug earth. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, and it added to the feeling that I was dealing with a living woman.
I grabbed the tape recorder off the table, turned and saw her standing beside the counter only a couple of feet away.
She looked down at my foot again for a moment and spoke. I rewound the tape when she finished and pressed play.
"A poultice of green moss does effect a cure most fine on such. It doth draw out the bad humors."
"It's only a blister," I said.
She raised her eyes to mine.
"You go to seek my town."
I nodded. "Yes. Very soon."
"It lies at the low point of the water."
I shook my head. "Three hundred years ago. Danielsford is gone. It no longer exists."
Her eyes took on a puzzled look. She seemed surprised to hear how much time had passed. For a moment, she stood motionless and silent, as if digesting the information.
"I've got to know where it used to be," I said.
"You are charged with giving me my rest," she said.
"If I can't find the village, I can't help you to your rest," I said. "Where was it?"
"You know of Wenham?" she asked.
I nodded.
"My town lies but a short way north, at the crossing. A road will lead you to it. Follow the road and ye shall find the town."
As I watched, she faded away.
"Well," I said to myself, "north of Wenham. That's something."
As I thought about the location, I limped to my office and brought up Google Earth on the computer. A minute later, I was slowly scanning the area north of Wenham, reducing the elevation as much as I could while still retaining clarity. I spent over an hour carefully studying the area. Nothing stood out. If there was a road it, like the town, was long gone.
The road she mentioned would have been dirt, wide enough to accommodate a wagon, and long ago grown over. When they abandoned the town, no need for the road would remain unless it went on to somewhere else. I guess it didn't go anywhere else because the road was gone. Apparently Daniel's Ford lost its importance.
In the intervening centuries all trace of it vanished as completely as the town, at least from several hundred feet overhead. I found a stream or river. Whether it was the right one or not remained to be seen. In the intervening centuries, if the town had been anywhere in the area, it had completely vanished. Still, I felt a glimmer of hope. Knowing the direction, we might be able to find something during the search.
I turned to Google Earth again, and I again slowly panned the area for another hour. Finally, I shook my head and pushed away from the workstation satisfied that, at least from overhead, the centuries had obliterated all trace of the road and the town it served. George Masters and I would have to rely on a ground search to discover whether anything remained.
Most of the day remained, but I wrote off the idea of a second walk. The blister on my heel would make it both unpleasant and painful. Instead, I hunted through cabinets looking for band-aids. I was sure I had a box somewhere.
I found them in the closet in one of the spare bedrooms and spent a moment trying to remember why I put them there, as if it mattered. The box was old, so old that the design on it changed to something more modern many years ago. I think the metal box itself was no more.
It took two band-aids to cover the blister. I was mildly surprised that, in spite of their age, they stuck well to my heel. To test my medical skill, I put on my socks, pulled on the boots and laced them up. So far, so good, I thought as I stood and took a few steps. They seemed to work, keeping the heel of the boot from irritating the wound.
Rather than take even a short walk, I decided to rest the blister. My walks involved going from the kitchen to the living room and back.
At seven in the evening I called Jackie and apologized for missing last night’s call. She understood.
We spent a couple of hours talking about what I planned for Monday, about the future, her business since the shop was open on Sunday and anything else coming to mind. Shortly before nine, with reluctance she said she had to finish running the receipts.
Not long after hanging up I went to bed, hoping to be up early and get a good start on the day. Nothing disturbed my night. Mary made no appearance. She had, I assumed, said all she needed during her earlier visit. In an odd way, I realized I wanted her to appear.
I drifted off to sleep quickly and had one dream. It was of Monday, day after tomorrow and it was positive. We found Danielsford instantly, had the funeral, and all was well. Dreams often end that way. The reality is seldom as perfect.