The New world
America,1918
A small cottage sat in the hills of Montana, outside a comparably small town called Springwater. The town, named for a wellspring that allowed the small homestead to survive and thrive, had seen much since the start of the great war. Its population was soon in the thousands but that great and terrible scourge from Europe had claimed much. Metal, people, food. For the war effort much was given and for that, the town suffered.
It suffered more at the hands of nature, the irony of nature taking more than man ever could, after four years of brutal conflict was not lost on the traveller who walked the road up to the small cottage that sat in the hills. Of all the places to be, he thought. The rolling hills of American heartland, wide open spaces and birdsong. It did little to hide the malice that the cottage contained.
The traveller was gaunt and old, well into his 64th year with salt and pepper hair finally succumbing to the snowy white that his genealogy dictated. His manner of dress somewhat out of season, grey tweed with brown boots and much of his weight supported by a black cane with a silver, curved handle. It was with this stick that the man hobbled up the slope at a leisurely pace which gave little away concerning his thrumming heartbeat.
Twenty seven years. Twenty seven years since he had last met the man. And in all that time, they had danced around each other like two nervous courters. Afraid to take the first leap, afraid to embrace for fear of what it would bring. Only the inevitability of what would occur was all too clear. Destruction on a level unknown. Much like the war except lost in the shadows of the underworld. A secret war. No, avoidance was the only option and both men knew the penalty. At certain points however, both men ignored the risks entirely.
The slope carried on through a small thicket of evergreens, branches crunched under the man's foot as he marched on, only to come to a halt at the sound of a cocked gun.
"Hold it pal. This is private property." The traveller stopped with a sigh and turned gently. He was getting old, too old and should have heard the man further away, perhaps noticed the traces of broken twigs or the heavy scent of brandy from the man's hipflask. He had split some earlier across his hunting jacket.
"My apologies sir. I am simply wishing to locate a friend." The traveller spoke, his hands rising into the air. "If I may, I have a letter, explaining as such." The gunman nodded as the old man slowly moved a wrinkled hand to his coat pocket and pulled free the invitation. The gunman took the paper and gave it a quick read.
"It is my master's hand writing alright, but we didn't receive no word of a visitor besides the doctor. Don't normally get them around here." He gave a sniff, his nose unseasonably red. Poor soul.
"It is a spur of the moment visit I confess, but I found myself travelling through and thought it best to visit my old friend, while I still can." His hands had now returned to besides his waist.
"So, you know?" The traveller gave a solemn nod of his head. "The house is 10 minutes further up, I'll announce you Mister…?"
"Pike. Langdale Pike." Said he.
"Right this way Mr Pike."
The remaining walk was surprisingly pleasant as Pike and the gunman meandered up out of the small woodland and finally came upon the cottage. It was built, Pike noticed, in a European style with heavy wooden beams kept the roof stable above the decking outside which contained a table and two chairs.
"Wait here." The gunman, whom Pike had ascertained was called Toby, grunted out as he entered to announce the visitor. Pike took another glance around the decking upon which he spied an old copy of a book he had once become very well acquainted with: The Dynamics of an Asteroid, and other lecture notes.
"Mr Birch will see you now." Toby said as Pike looked up, a small smile on his face. "Thank you. Where do I put my hat and coat?" he asked as Toby gave a nod to a near by coat hanger, where Pike hung up his deerstalker.