The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually
taken over as a moveable feast with many participants supplying the Words.
When Delores closed her
blog forever due to other problems, Elephant's Child (Sue) took over
the role of coordinator.
Now, after Sue's demise, River has taken the mantle of coordinator upon her shoulders.
No matter what, how, where or who the aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to our mind.
This month the words are supplied by Lissa and are to be found on her blog.
If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please leave a comment on
River's blog, then we can come along and read it and add a few encouraging
words.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So
Please,
remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples'
stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this
one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need
encouragement.
And for today, Wednesday 25, we were given:Train
Loop
Scream
Puzzle
Bowl
From which I did not use a single one. I just continued with my dream-tale of Peter's time travel.Lars Hansen entered, now in a fine dress complete with a silver buttoned, striped waistcoat. I felt a tiny bit hysteric, and even more like participating in a play. Just the other day I had been a totally normal boy, going to school, tinkering with my moped, having a girl friend, a job, friends and family; playing my guitar, dreaming of the future ... now I lay all beaten up in an oversized shirt, 200 years before I should have been anything, with a mysterious journey to account for and three local bigwigs about to grill me.
Lars Hansen greeted me by the name of Peter Larsen. I was about to protest, but then I realized that as Lars was my father, Larsen was what I was, not my surname. Then he introduced the chaplain, Andreas Peter Madsen and the scribe Bengt Pedersen. Bengt sat at the table, pulled out a big ledger, an inkwell and some pens. Sophie lit the candles and brought two more stools. Lars and the chaplain sat down and looked at me.
The Chaplain asked: "What is your name?"
Careful not to lie or say anything to arose suspicion I replied: "I'm Peter, son of Lars. And my mother is called Ellen."
"Where do you live?"
"I do not remember," I replied. " My brain feels all hazy, stuffed like."
"How did you arrive here?"
Now I was on safer grounds: "Inside a big trunk. I had hidden in there from my smaller cousins - we played hide and seek. The trunk accidentally snapped shut, or was maybe shut by the owner. No, I do not remember his name either. He lived at my grandparents' place, but he was a strange person, keeping much to himself. Then the trunk - still with me inside - was pulled off, maybe put on some carriage, and suddenly there was a big sound like a cannon, I was shook up, I banged my head against the trunk more times. I fainted and then I awoke here."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen, I'll be eighteen in August." Again I was careful not to mention any years. Quickly I did some maths. Now was 1802, subtract 18, I should then if pressed, give my birth-year as 1784. I would rather not. Let the scribe do the maths.
"What did you do for a living?"
"I do not remember," I replied, selling cheeseburgers would be gibberish for farmers in 1802 I was sure, " I remember going to school, but noting more."
The chaplain waited for the scribe to finish, and asked him to read aloud. He did and I had trouble following what he said.
The three men left the room. Sophie gave me a glass of watered beer, and then we waited. The men entered again.
"We have discussed what to do with you," the chaplain said. "And we have decided that until further notice you are to stay here at Lars Hansen's farm, get well, earn your living, and hopefully get your memory back. I will ask around and pray my fellow vicars to do the same, for somewhere a family is missing a son." He looked at me and added with something alike to pity: "Do not press our memory, give it time. Maybe it will return of its own accord. I expect to see you in church come Sunday."
He and the scribe left and Lars asked the maid to get some more beer. Then he pulled up the stool, sat down and looked at me. "What work can you do?" he mused. "You do not look strong, and your hands look as if they had not done much work, even when first you arrived."
"I'll have to regain my strength," I said, stalling for time and inspiration.
"Yes of course, you look white as the sheets just by sitting. You need strengthening. But still what can you do? Were you a farmer?"
"I don't think so," I answered. "my grandfather was, but we visited only rarely."
"A blacksmith then?" He shook his head. "As I said, your hands were not calloused or scarred or anything even when you arrived. Was your father a tradesman or horsebreeder?"
"I don't remember," I answered again. "My memory feels like a slate someone has just recently swept clean. But I know how to read, I suppose I can also write, and I can do sums. I think I can even speak some English and German."
"Tradesman, then. Maybe from Elsinoer, maybe even Copenhagen or Bergen. Did you come from far away to visit your grandparents - and where do they live?"
"I do not remember even that. But yes, I do actually think we travelled quite far to visit them. They lived in a small town, Northern Zealand, but the name eludes me. Why, I can't recall their names either."
"You were also in a bad state when we found you, black and blue all over, and half frozen too. Many were the times we thunk you would not live through the night. The other man, he died. We buried him when the ground finally thawed last week. It has been a long, cold winter. All the other trunks and boards were also in bad ways, we have used them for kindling, or for small repairs. Only your trunk remains."
Sophie came, carrying beer and two mugs. Lars poured half a mug for me and a full one for himself. "All this thinking and talking is thirsty work," he said, and drank deeply of the beer.
I tried it too. It was thin and bitter, even bitterer that the cheap beer I had drunk Saturday night in town. But also not as strong, luckily, as getting drunk, or even just tipsy would not do, I was afraid to blabber or start crying. Neither would be smart. I suddenly remembered that I was dressed only in an oversized shirt and asked: "When you found me, in the trunk, was I then naked or do I still have some clothes of my own?"
"You were dressed in some strange rags," Lars replied.
Of course, a T-shirt and short jeans would be classified as this in 1802, I thought, but too late.
"We still have them somewhere. They were made of some very good materials, but they are in no way fitting clothes for a young man."
"Remember, it was hot, and I was on toddler duty," I said smiling a lopsided smile. "I'd very much like to have them back, maybe they can even aid my memory."
"I will ask Sophie to see to it. And now you eat and sleep. Tomorrow I return and see what work I can have you do."
"Thank you, Master." I replied.
"I do not think you should have to call me Master," Lars said. "You can call me Lars. I have a mind that you come from good stock."
With that he left, and shortly after Sophie returned with a tray of mashed potatoes, some slightly stale bread, a broiled piece of meat and two wrinkly apples. And my clothes. She left immediately, taking the candles with her, telling she was busy, as today was baking day.
I first ate everything on the plate and drank some more of the bitter beer. It went well with the salty meat. Why was it this salt? Thinking further on this I realised that electricity, at least useful electricity was yet to be invented. No electricity of course meant no refrigerators, no engines, no internet, 'phones, computers, no machinery at all. Also no tap water, flushing toilets or indeed most anything I was used to seeing as normal daily amenities. I looked around, Wooden furniture, made by hand, textiles, probably spun, woven, and sewn by Lars' wife and other female on the farm, if more than the wife and Sophie lived here. I had an idea that old farms were quite populated. All food grown locally. The ground ploughed by horses, the grains cut and threshed by men and maybe horsepower. Cows milked by hand ... the list of jobs on a farm was endless.
I slowly realised that almost everything I knew was now useless knowledge. I did not know enough of anything to really make it work. How would I for instance build a moped, or just a working engine of any sort even given a proper shop. I further realised that whatever skill I had, useful and useable in 1802, any village kid could do ten times better, having done so since they could barely walk.
I felt lost, abandoned. I hoped for a way to get home to my own time, but the only one who knew how, the mysterious lodger, had died and his equipment was smashed, burned or repurposed. I cried myself to sleep, hugging my old clothes.
... to be continued
