| |
––––––––
September 8th, 1962 The Chihuahuan Desert
TURNER found himself standing on the sand in a stark landscape underneath a three-quarters moon, his arms empty of his new bride and no one around at all. Thanks for giving me enough light to see my watch by.
Then with a sigh he saw that he’d landed far off-target—both in time and space. Nineteen sixty-two put him fifty years earlier than he was supposed to be, and the latitude and longitude put him far from New York. His best estimate had him somewhere in West Texas, but his memory was fuzzy on the numbers. He hoped he hadn’t landed in Mexico. It was bad enough the identification he carried would now say he’d yet to be born—if he had to cross the border into the US, he’d be in real trouble.
Scanning the lively-looking desert around him, Turner thought he was facing enough of a challenge already. It wasn’t the nice, flat kind of desert. The ground undulated in an uneven pattern of little basins and dunes, with a wide array of plants littering the landscape and nocturnal animals slithering and scurrying in and around the brush. Verity would be having a rougher time of it than him, though. Help me find her.
Looking down at his watch again, he scrolled to the locator screen and grunted. No blip and no red bar meant no other Travelers in this time. No Verity. He didn’t have any idea when or where she was, or what trials she might be facing right now, but he couldn’t help her.
He grinned at the thought that she would want his assistance. One of the things that had attracted him to Verity was her competence—she didn’t need him taking care of her. He shouldn’t worry. Lord, I’ll have to leave her in Your hands. What he should be doing was focusing on his own predicament.
With no leader device around, his own was useless for moving him anywhere—he could only travel in real time, and in one direction only, forward. The so-called slow path. As far as changing his physical location went, all he had was his two feet.
Turner was tempted to just stay there and wait, but he’d probably die if he simply sat until someone came along to rescue him. Likely he’d end up dead anyway, but he was not about to give up that easily. Aside from any other considerations, he didn’t want to make Verity a widow if he could help it, especially since she wouldn’t even know. He had to start moving. It was chilly, and it would surely get colder, but that would be much better than roasting during the day. What direction should I head in?
He could see mountains in the distance no matter which way he looked. If he was in Mexico, north or east would take him to the US, and if he was already in the States, the same would take him farther from the border. But he didn’t know which way was north or east or south or west, and he couldn’t know until sunrise—the stupid device didn’t have a compass function. And he needed to cover as much distance as possible before dawn.
Traveling very far would be enough of an ordeal without wasting any more time—he decided to trust that he’d appeared here already facing the right way for the path he should take. He took one small step and tore his pant leg on some spiny little plant he’d not seen. He couldn’t stop a sigh from escaping.
He had to find people, civilization of some sort, and soon, if he was going to survive—and he wanted to look decent when he did so. Putting one foot in front of the other, Turner trudged across the sand, trying to find the most level path forward and avoid getting scratched or catching his clothes on the various plants and bushes along the way. Keep me from stumbling and making myself more of a mess than I already am.
As he plodded on, dodging more of those spiny little stalks that stabbed for his shins, he wondered where and when the others were. There was no way Anya would know anything had gone wrong until or unless she ran into Page or Matt or Verity—or when two thousand twelve had rolled around and Turner hadn’t shown up. That would tell the woman he still considered his leader something. Not that she’d be able to do anything about it.
The leader devices used by both Anya and Page couldn’t tell them the temporal location of another Traveler. Only the professor’s master Travel device supposedly did that—if it was functioning right and being operated correctly. Given his current circumstances, Turner didn’t have a lot of confidence in either being true. So even if the others were looking for him, the only way they’d be able to find him, or he them, was if they happened to end up in the same present moment—and checked their locator screen to realize it. So he had no alternative but to take the slow path into the future, and the slow trek through this desert.
He lifted his eyes to the small peaks ahead that were gradually drawing closer as he kept on trudging along. If he actually made it that far, he’d have to worry about getting over or through those mountains—but before then he should probably be looking for water. If he couldn’t find some, he wouldn’t be long for this world.
Likely there were ways to find water in the desert, if only he knew what those were. Some of these plants might yield enough water to sustain him, but he didn’t know which—and many of them might be poisonous, not that he worried about that any more than he did about the snakes and scorpions slithering and scuttling about. But he knew some of these plants had hallucinogenic properties, and he wasn’t sure what effect they would have on his system. He wasn’t desperate enough to risk it, yet. Losing control of himself in these circumstances could quickly turn fatal.
He continued walking for hours, trying to keep his mind focused on watching his step, and avoiding looking at his watch. The night grew colder, but exertion warmed him up. His thighs and calves began to burn, and a thin sheen of sweat trickled across his brow. No doubt speeding his dehydration. And he had still seen no inkling of the presence of people in any direction as far as his eye could see. How much of this will I have to endure?
The exertion that warmed him now would likely kill him if he kept going through the day. He finally paused for a brief rest and checked his watch. Daybreak was getting near. He would need to stop not long after that, but before he stopped he needed to locate shelter of some sort. Otherwise, the sun and heat would make quick work of him. He compared the coordinates of his present position to the place he had landed. He had been heading in a southeasterly fashion. I trust that’s the way You wanted me to go.
With a deep breath he forced his legs to move—one step after another to make progress toward the smaller peaks. He’d been gradually angling toward those and away from a larger range he was now sure lay to the east. Maybe he’d find water there as well as shelter. He hoped to find both. And prayed he’d be able to make it that far.
As he kept going at a steady, even pace, Turner smiled at the irony. Before joining this research expedition, back when he’d been a young preacher, he had often talked about ‘wilderness experiences’ that tested and refined a believer’s faith. But he’d never had one himself, not until now.
Whether it had been evangelism or academics, everything had always come easy to him. Maybe he would appreciate that more, after this. He believed what he was going through would make him strong—if he got through it at all. For that, he knew he’d need a miracle. You’ll have to provide at least one of those if you want me to survive this.
By the time the harsh yellow light began to glare over the higher peaks in the east, Turner was climbing into the rocky foothills to the south, making his steps a little surer, even if it required more physical effort to ascend. He could also see clearly now as he scanned his surroundings looking for shade, but the same sun that helped him see began baking him. He needed to find shelter before the sun rose any higher in the sky.
With the sun also came more life. Turner spotted some kind of antelope on a far hill, but mostly it was insects, crawling and flying and buzzing all over the place. As the sun continued to climb, those bugs became more annoying, and the air around him became a pulsating oven. If he had found somewhere that looked comfortable enough, he might have lain down and let the desert do its work.
He had noticed a few overhanging outcroppings—but none with enough room to rest under—and a few tight clefts he might’ve been able to stick half an arm into. It was nearing noon, and he was starting to feel disoriented. Loopy. Half-baked, even.
He thought he was laughing when he rounded a bend and saw a hole in the rock almost big enough to call a cave. He scrambled up to reach it and saw he would just be able to cram himself into the sweet shade, and there was no indication the place was the habitual abode of any particular creature, so at least he wasn’t intruding on another’s sanctuary.
He had to fold himself almost in half to squeeze inside, and he doubted he could get any real rest in that position. But he’d found shelter. Turner knew he might not last the day even so, but he comforted himself with the thought it would take long enough for his body to be found there that his identification might be taken seriously, that Verity would find out she’d been widowed.
He had hope, though, that when night fell again he’d be able to move on—keep going until he found what he needed. And he’d never been disappointed in his hopes. Yet. But Lord, I don’t think I can take another night like that.
With those last thoughts in his mind, he laid his cheek against his knee and promptly fell asleep.