TRUST ME

Note to Reader: As Author could no more accurately reproduce authentic British vernacular than she could burst into "O Mio Babbino Caro" in Swahili while pirouetting en pointe in a tutu, the following is of necessity rendered in a simulacrum consisting of contemporary Standard Americanese with Southern phraseology, inflections and accents as appropriate. Get over it.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Dora - A doleful damsel of twenty, resolutely idealistic with unrequited passions and unfulfilled dreams. Total fox.

Steve - A lugubrious lad of twenty-one, relationally dysfunctional with articulatory dysfluency and anger management issues. Major hunk.

Ron - A cheerful chap of twenty-three, morally ambiguous and diplomatically declined with a heart of slightly tarnished gold. Underrated hottie.

Hazel - A bodacious babe of seventeen, goal-oriented with keen insight and matrimonial aspirations. Primo bird.

Bernard - A chronologically-challenged polymath with multiple personality disorder, podiatric problems and an impossible mission. Unrated.

Slugger - A mature gentleman of unrecognized interior complexity and assorted phobias.

Dorothy - An erudite housekeeper with a twist and a tyrannical disposition. Not to be trifled with.

Elayne - A titled trophy wife with an outrageous attitude and Machiavellian machinations. Dora's confidante.

And a bevy of supranaturally empowered females with an agenda.

EQUINE / BOVINE PLAYERS

Copper - A proud bald-faced sorrel sabino Arabian-Thoroughbred cross with high white stockings, open to new experiences. Dora's pride and joy.

Alex - An unassuming pseudo-Appaloosa with no complaints. Stodgy and somewhat lacking in personality. Dear to Steve.

Squirrel - A remarkably unattractive generic horse with identity issues, conformational discrepancies and no apparent redeeming qualities. Bernard's pal.

Maud - A geriatric Jersey with extreme prejudice and homicidal tendencies. Dorothy's sidekick.

Donkey - An ass with no issues and no relevance to this story.

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PART ONE— SATURDAY & SUNDAY — 10 AUGUST 2010

A reluctant and unwilling facilitator travels back in time to orchestrate a romance between two young people with communication and commitment problems. It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it!

CHAPTER 1: Prologue: A preposterous proposition

"We have to talk." I knew I was in trouble as soon as my wife, joining me in the great room and taking her chair opposite mine on the other side of the fieldstone fireplace in which aspen logs crackled and glowed, uttered those four doom-evoking words. Definitely not what you want to hear from the lips of your beloved, especially on the eve of her return home from a sojourn in another part of the world, engaging in who knows what sort of dubious activities along with fellow members of her nefarious sorority.

"We do?" Reluctantly lowering my book to my lap and peering over the frames of my reading glasses, I scanned her face for clues and mentally replayed the events of the past few weeks, searching for any transgressions I might have committed, inadvertently or otherwise. Nope, nothing worthy of either a report or a confession.

"Whatever it is I've done I'm sure I didn't do it," I murmured, just to be on the safe side.

"It's nothing you've done, darling," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's something I need you to do."

Right then my internal domestic tranquility alert level jumped from code green to code blue. We rarely use endearments when addressing each other except when engaging in—or about to embark on—an argument. Judging from her demeanor (composed) and expression (bland) I was pretty sure it was something I wouldn't want to do and resigned myself to the inevitable. Not for nothing have I been this woman's consort these many years.

"What might that be, dear?" I queried cautiously.

My spouse is generally forthright when presenting mundane matters. But when the request is likely to be undesired on my part, she employs the lateral maneuver—distracting me with feints and thrusts until I come to regard the idea, whatever it is, as my own and therefore an agreeable one. You'd think after all this time I'd be wise to her wiles and could see it coming, and you'd be right. You'd also think I'd have accumulated enough wisdom to avoid falling into her trap, but there you'd be wrong. I know what she's up to. I know it's there. I fall into it anyway. I'm hopeless.

"Wouldn't you like to go on a little vacation, honey?" she queried, apropos of nothing.

"Would it expedite this conversation if I were to say 'no' straight off... honey?" I responded out of an obligation to put up a token resistance. "Besides, I'm already on vacation." Which was true. I had opted to take off not only the summer term, which was just finishing up at the university, but the fall term about to get underway. When you hold a senior chair, you can do that sort of thing when you just have to have a break from the student hordes.

"Oh come on... just a short one... It'll be fun, mi amor."

"No." And I meant it. I had been looking forward to many more months of leisure in the privacy and comfort of home and meant to enjoy every blessed minute of it.

"We really need your help, mon chéri." My alert level spiked to code yellow as the 'we' in this context clearly meant the sisterhood and not just the two of us.

I suppose I'd better explain that my helpmeet is a practicing witch... a card-carrying member in good standing and an officer of La Société Internationale Antique et Honorable des Sorcières Blanches, P.A. "Professional association" is what they call it these days, the term "coven" being considered old-fashioned and politically incorrect. And it's strictly gender specific... guy witches have their own union. I'm not a guy witch, by the way, but something else entirely—a one-trick pony so to speak. I'm not even all that good at it. Excepting present company—naturally—I generally don't get along with witches all that much. There's a traditional animosity between their order and mine—with mine always getting the nasty end of the shaft... or wand. Whatever.

My lady wife and I never discuss the machinations of Club Witch (my term, not hers), having from the get-go settled on a "don't ask, don't tell" policy in the interest of marital harmony. She had never asked and I had never volunteered for any activity involving the society and I certainly wasn't about to start now.

"No," I said again, rather more firmly, and ostentatiously elevated my book so that it obscured her face. After a moment or so of silence building ominously beyond the pages I was pretending to peruse, I detected a dainty sniffle. Groaning inwardly, I put the book down again and observed the trembling lips and a single glistening tear sliding down one exquisite cheek. She so seldom wept that it unnerved me every time. I was powerless, even as I felt the big guns training in my direction.

"Okay. Let's hear it," I said gloomily.

She outlined the problem and the suggested plan for resolution. Of course it was something I didn't want to do and said so. She blithely ignored my ineffectual protest and continued explaining as I listened with increasing dismay until she stopped, at which point I had ratcheted up to code orange. The apparent conclusion of any such address is my signal to repeat everything back to confirm that 'yes dear, I was paying attention and, yes dear, I understand the instructions.'

"Let me get this straight... you want me to travel to a strange country and convince a pair of young people I don't know from Adam's housecat that they ought to mate for life and live happily ever after? No problem! I'll hop right on it."

"No need for sarcasm, bébé," she retorted primly.

"But, querida, aside from the fact that it's not our business to meddle in these people's lives and choreograph their destinies, why can't you or one of your girlfriends take care of it?" I grumbled.

My devoted spouse bestowed on me a look that conveyed faintly exasperated patience such as one might apply toward a beloved but mildly retarded child. "Because, mein schatz, you're the one with the degree in psychology and this problem requires expertise and finesse."

"Behavioral theorist, sweetheart... and I haven't done clinicals in over twenty years, as you well know. Out of practice!"

"No matter. It's like riding a bicycle... you never forget. You're perfect for the job. It'll be a piece of cake. Think of it as a condensed power seminar in romance-commitment relativity," she added helpfully.

Well, put that way, I did seem the logical choice. Still didn't want to do it.

"No, I still don't want to do it, ma fleur, and there's no good reason why I should... or is there?"

Her face reflected her internal struggle between providing a convincing argument in favor of the proposed mission and her reluctance to express it. The association has rigorous rules about what information the ladies (and I use that term loosely) are allowed to disseminate to ordinary folks or even semi-ordinary ones like myself. It's like being married to an intelligence agency operative—she could tell me, but then she'd have to kill me. As far as I know and in my personal experience, she doesn't read minds or palms or tea leaves, tell fortunes, brew disgusting potions, travel via broomstick or turn recalcitrant husbands into toads. She may be capable of doing these things but I'd really rather not know about it. What she does admit to is an ability to "see" into both the past and the future, though she's not allowed to divulge her findings to lesser beings outside the order, not even her mate. Oh... and cast spells; that I've seen her do.

In any case, I was determined to hold my position on this issue. What I should have been doing was paying closer attention when my internal alert leaped to code red.

"Sorry, sweetpea, but it's just not on. Out of the question. This whole proposition is completely preposterous and I'm not going to do it. Count me out. And that's my final word on the subject!"

When I came downstairs in the morning she was already seated in the breakfast nook overlooking the terrace and swimming pool. Her open laptop reposed on the table in front of her, whispering "big fat clue." Bigger clue: my all-time favorite breakfast was already prepared along with coffee just the way I like it, with the morning paper folded nearby. Clue of gargantuan proportions: On the terrace near the swimming pool and clearly visible through the French doors stood what appeared to be a blue one-holer outhouse that I was pretty sure had not been there the day before. An outhouse with a flashing light on top. I didn't have to see or smell the rat to know it was there. A big hairy one. Obviously, she was about to relaunch her campaign.

"No," I said, lifting the cover over the pancakes and reaching for the butter.

She heaved a great sigh.

"Nope. No way." I poured warm maple syrup over my pancakes.

Her nostrils quivered and she drew in her breath for dramatic effect before launching her grenade...

"This is serious. This is an emergency. The choices these young people make will ultimately have an impact on our own family."

I froze in mid-pour. Now she had my undivided attention. Family is everything and she knows there's nothing I won't do to promote and protect the welfare of our children and grandchildren.

"Meaning what, exactly? Are you're saying that if I don't go something bad will happen?"

"Well, no... it's more like something good won't happen."

"Could you elaborate?"

"Let's just say that, if you don't intervene, something precious will be lost to us forever... to our family's future, that is."

"All I have to do is talk them into committing to each other?"

"Basically, yes."

"So they're not together now?"

"Not exactly."

"How not exactly?"

"You'll see when you get there."

"Sounds like your plans are already pretty far along," I commented.

"Well, yes. We were sure you'd understand and want to help out." She smiled beatifically.

I mulled this over for a minute or two before responding with what I hoped was an appropriate degree of disapproval. "I take it this 'we' I keep hearing implies involvement with Auntie Elayne?"

Marie-Elayne Passepartout is head of their neopaganist society (in my estimation a smug and pretentious lot and overful of their own abilities—my lady wife aside, of course) and, incidentally, my wife's maternal aunt. Elayne is a very powerful witch who scares the bejesus out of me; I endeavor to stay as far out of her way as possible. She objected strenuously to our alliance on the grounds that her niece was marrying not only out of her clan but way below her station. We've maintained mutual detestation ever since. For some reason, though, her abhorrence of me personally doesn't extend to our progeny, which she dotes on, having no children of her own. Go figure.

"It was Elayne's idea."

"What?!" I was genuinely shocked. Elayne wouldn't recommend me for dogcatcher.

My spouse was looking distinctly uncomfortable at this juncture and eyeing me with trepidation.

"Elayne has to be involved to a certain extent and I expect you to be on your good behavior."

Knowing curiosity will overcome caution every time in my case, she turned the laptop around and slid it across to my side of the table, lapsing into professorese: "A concise situation report and biographical sketches of your two main subjects, plus three ancillary persons with whom it will be necessary to interact in order to facilitate your objective. Oh, and photographs for identification purposes."

I scrolled down and studied the photos; they definitely had a patina of age on them. The clothing and hairstyles were suspiciously familiar. The rat stench intensified.

"When, exactly, were these taken?"

"Ah... a while back." Her evasiveness wasn't lost on me.

"How much of a while back?"

"1974."

"You're kidding, right?"

I snickered until she tossed over a faded Polaroid taken at the height of my antiestablishment pseudoflowerchild period. Oh crap. On the day manly good looks, imposing physique and tall stature were being handed out, I was—as usual—standing in the wrong line. So, just like every other average, ordinary joe, I overcompensated by exploiting my sole redeeming feature: I had good hair. Great hair, as a matter of fact... no small vanity in an era where glorious flowing locks on the male of the human species were both admired and celebrated. If a yak had mated with a troll doll and they'd had a love child, it would've had hair like mine—sun-bleached with just enough unruly waves to subvert all efforts to subdue it with a pocket comb.

I allowed myself a fleeting moment of nostalgia. Back then, my rationale for letting my hair run amok was that it made me look taller and sexier (or so I thought) and it bugged the hell out of my parents and college professors. It didn't help that I routinely dressed like a refugee from a band of ragpickers.

Suddenly I understood why I was being shown this particular image.

"You're not serious!"

"As a heart attack," she deadpanned. "To gain their acceptance, you'll have to blend in."

The unwelcome realization swept over me of what else this gig was going to entail. If this "problem" didn't exist in the here and now but was in fact an anomaly in the time-space continuum that occurred (or will occur or might occur) thirty-six years ago, that meant time traveling. I really, really hate time traveling. It wreaks havoc with my innards that no amount of Dramamine can forestall.

"You know how much I hate time travel," I whimpered.

"Don't whine, dear. It's unbecoming. And it's only thirty-six years—a relatively minor temporal displacement," she responded, somewhat tetchily.

I launched a feeble counterattack. "If as you say it's an 'historic' event, doesn't that mean their story's already written?"

"T'aint necessarily so..." my wife countered primly, "History is fluid, you know... it can go forward and backward along parallel paths. We feel that a timely intervention will circumvent unfortunate decisions and prevent an adverse effect on history."

"You mean if they drift apart and choose different mates?"

"Exactly."

"So you're saying if they didn't... don't... get together and found a dynasty, civilization as we know it will cease to exist?"

"No... of course not. You're being facetious. It will merely flow along another course, but humanity will be a tiny bit poorer for the absence of the family they might have generated," she intoned unctuously.

We locked eyes and wills for a few moments more. She could, of course, make me go... I knew that, and she knew I knew it. But I also knew without a doubt that she would never use her superior abilities to force me against my will. The bond of absolute trust between us is just that... absolute. We couldn't have stayed together all this time without that. I made my decision.

"I'll do it but I'd really like to know what this has to do with our family."

"All I can tell is that it involves your favorite grandson and their eldest granddaughter... if there is one."

"I have no favorite grandson... all my grandchildren are precious," I lied judiciously.

"You forget to whom you lie. And in any case, he's mine as well. But if you tell anyone I said so, it's Toadsville for you," she warned.

"I see. Is that it?"

"That's all you're getting," she said firmly. As in, not for me to question the whys.

"Can Squirrel go, too?"

"I don't know if that's such a good idea. Every time you let him out he gets you in trouble."

I whined. "But I might need him."

"Oh, all right. But don't be coming home with another tattoo."

"Good grief, woman! It's not a tat. It was just an error in judgment a long time ago... and it was just the one! Get over it. Can we get back to the subject?"

"Certainly. Questions?"

"How much time do I have?"

"One week."

"Excuse me? One week?!" I squawked. "Are you kidding?"

"Nope. Sorry. If the fix isn't in by the girl's twenty-first birthday party the opportunity will be lost."

"One week!" I moaned. "One week to achieve what they've failed to accomplish by themselves in three years!"

We discussed the bones of the mission with mounting annoyance on my part as a few other minor omissions on her part were gradually unveiled...

As previously mentioned, I do possess a modest ability of my own. But what she was suggesting meant venturing into territory I'd never tried before. I presented my reservations.

"Oh, that... I'll take care of that," she blithely declared. Wonderful.

And, I had to go right now as the anomaly would be happening (or did happen or might happen) in exactly eight days... that is, eight days from thirty-six years ago today. Confusing, I know, but there you have it.

I had not, at this point, inquired as to where I was going or how I was going to get there but suspected it might have something to do with that mysterious blue outhouse on my terrace. While finishing breakfast I sped-read and committed to memory the text portions. Great. A lonesome loser, a lost soul, the class clown and a punchdrunk old man.

Another objection occurred: "Wait just a minute! Am I going back as me... or as him?" Pointing to the Polaroid. "Will I still know everything I know now?" Hah! Let her explain away that one!

But explain it she did. "No worries, liebchen," she soothed. "We researched this thoroughly. You'll be both... think of it as having a bifurcated persona. You'll be enjoying all the physiology, features and faculties of the twenty-three-year-old version of you, but you'll retain all your current memories and knowledge. You probably won't even notice when you're toggling between personalities."

Next thing I knew, I was being propelled out the French doors onto the terrace and toward the 'conveyance' that was going to take me where I needed to go. She had already arranged a backpack and this she handed over to me along with a small blue feather and explicit instructions for its use. She wished me luck, kissed me goodbye and shoved me through the door.

FIELD JOURNAL — SUNDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER 1974 — 8:45AM

Travel notes: The captain ("just call me Doctor") of this extraordinary vessel announced he had just taken over operations and this was his first run. The flight—if it can be called such—was short and uneventful aside from a bit of wheezing, rumbling and vibration. Took care of the changeover with unsolicited advice from Captain Doctor who claims extensive experience in this matter. Stayed mainly in the lavatory, throwing up. Disembarked just after sunrise. Barfed in some bushes and set off to scope out the terrain.

General observations:So here I am, on the backside of nowhere in Yorkshire, England. No internet, no laptop, no smartphone, no digital camera—they wouldn't work anyway as they haven't been invented yet. Have only this crappy notebook, a felt marker and a ball-point pen. My area of operations centers on this "Follyfoot" farm, maintained as a refuge for retired/rescued horses, and its surrounds. There are horses grazing in a meadow adjoining a grove of trees with an inviting little hidden lake and, in the distance, a cluster of stone buildings. Except for absence of open range in the immediate vicinity, the countryside here is very much like home—scenic, if mainly agricultural. Pasturage interspersed with cultivated fields and grand sweeping vistas over rolling hills. Not much forest but enough to hide in if necessary. Basic commerce conducted in Tockwith, a ville located nearby.

Assessments from professional POV:Both primaries present with attachment disorders, albeit due to entirely unrelated childhood circumstances. Having only just recently become recognized as separate discipline in field, pediatric psychology won't address attachment theory, abandonment issues and separation anxiety until something like 15 to 20 years from now so can personally do nothing to ameliorate that particular brand of damage. Only viable alternative here is lead them toward open communications re feelings toward each other.

About Steve Ross: Appalling formative years involving parental abandonment, possible physical abuse, foster care, orphanage, reformatory, homelessness. Survival mechanisms consist of anger, denial and regression to introverted state. Exhibits confrontational and aggressive behavior when distressed, challenged or thwarted. Inadequate communicative skills. Little formal education. (Thirty years from now, psyche science will be associating dysfunctional childhoods with criminal behavior in adults.) On the plus side: Bright and a quick study; compassionate and kind to underdogs.

About Dora Maddocks: Absentee parents—overclassed, overprivileged, completely self-absorbed with sociopolitical status. Child regarded as excess baggage and relegated to surrogate care since infancy. Comprehensive but incomplete boarding/finishing school education. Difficulty maintaining emotional balance, being either overly withdrawn or overwrought in turn. Resistant to changes in personal environment. Communication skills inhibited by shyness. On the plus side: Also quite intelligent and has developed a modicum of self-confidence, improved coping skills and formulated goals since assuming responsibility for farm.

The problem: He's prevented from pressing suit romantically due to fear of rejection and belief in class incompatibility. Also, lacking role models has no clue as to forming commitment. She can't overcome cultural inhibitions about making first overture (feminist movement and women's liberation just now getting underway here). Both seriously challenged re tactile response, having limited experience with touching, handholding, hugging, kissing—much less any more involved physical intimacy. Relationship stalemated and neither one willing to risk disturbing status quo.

Additional notes: Very little detailed information on three ancillary subjects. Don't know to what extent or in what capacity these are involved with primaries. Will have to play by ear.

Plans: Effect initial encounter with primary subjects on neutral ground. Assess current psyche/emotional status of both in comparison with case study analyses. Concoct plausible raison d'être. Gain access to residential premises if possible.

Goals: First, get their attention and formulate initial impression.

Technical issues: SHE Who Holds The Power assured me that the age regression will hold as long as necessary. I don't know as I've never tried it before. And it's been a long time since I let Squirrel out to play. There wasn't a mirror in the onboard restroom so I don't know yet how the transition worked out, cosmetically speaking. I don't feel too much different yet—maybe a little less creaky—but assuming my head will be requiring a period of adjustment to reinhabiting a body it hasn't occupied in 36 years.

Note to self: Now that that's out of the way, where's a Starbucks when you need a caffeine boost? Oh wait... Starbucks won't get here until 1998. Bummer. SHE Who Must Be Obeyed insisted I keep a feather on my person at all times—something to do with the spell but I know better than to ask for specifics. Some things you're better off not knowing about. Doesn't have to be this particular feather... any one will do. How did I let myself get talked into this? Because... "Women are by and large much stronger than men. If not physically, then in every other possible way." Blatantly plagiarized from John Paul Schultz on FaceBook but ain't it the truth?

Got my towel... got my feather... good to go.