Ben's convinced he's trapped in a sea of tar or black quicksand of some sort for his limbs are heavy and a pool of dark matter clouds his vision. He can't breathe, not properly at least. The thick substance is compressing his chest cavity. It's the only explanation.
"Open your eyes Benny…Come on, open your bloody eyes."
The voice has a familiar tone, but it sounds muffled and far. The dialect is distinct, reminding Ben of his youth, though no name comes forth to attach to it. And the request doesn't make sense, as far as he can tell, his eyes are open.
"Come on Ben… you can do it."
Ben tries opening his eyes wider and a pool of light filters through the darkness. It's dim, made of hazy yellows and reds and oranges. The colors mingle together, dancing with the shadows.
"That's it. You're doing good. Now open'm a bit wider."
I can't open them any wider! A tap on his cheek draws him closer to the surface of the light pool. Pain surfaces too. His head throbs and he twists away, dipping beneath inky blackness once more.
"Don't you dare go back to sleep on me, you've slept long enough Tallboy..."
Tallboy? I've heard that voice and name before. But where? A cold sensation overwhelms his senses, chasing away his thoughts. It starts at his forehead and moves down his neck, chest, and torso, sending shockwaves down his spine. His muscles twitch beneath the uncomfortable contrast. He tries to put distance between himself and the cold but his limbs won't cooperate.
"That's it, time to wake up."
I am awake. Ben flutters his eyelids to prove to his oppressor's voice he is indeed conscious. The coolness returns, drawing him closer to the surface, towards the pool of light. At the surface, everything hurts. Under a shroud of pain, Ben blinks his eyes open.
A hazy horizon shifts in and out and unfamiliar shapes waltz through Ben's field of vision. He squints, but this further distorts them so he blinks, again and again, until the shapes form into faces. One woman, two men. The man with the bushy beard smiles so wide, Ben fears his face might split open.
"Welcome back Tallboy," the man exclaims, voice booming.
Ben stares at the man with the beard, realizing he must know him. How, he isn't certain. The two remaining faces offer no clues, he recognizes neither. Swiveling his head, Ben rests his gaze on the bearded man. Why do you look...scared?
Panic rises in Ben's chest. Should I be concerned too? His palms sweat and his heart races. He glances around, nothing looks familiar, except the man with the beard. Why can't I remember your name? How did I get here? Was I kidnapped? His blood runs cold at the last thought. The bearded man stretches out his hands, palms up and open.
"Easy now Tallboy. You're with friends."
Ben shakes his head. How would I not recognize my friends?
"Alright, everyone back away," the bearded man tells the man and woman. "You don't want to be on the receiving end of that right hook, trust me."
Ben looks down. He hadn't noticed his hands balling into fists. He releases them. The man and woman retreat as the bearded man reaches towards him. It takes every ounce of strength but Ben manages to scoot away. Dragging lead filled legs to his chest, he wraps his arms around them. "D...don't...touch me."
The man's eyes open wide. It's a pitiful look. "Ben it's me. Caleb."
Caleb. Ben squeezes his eyes shut. Memories flicker like fireflies just out of reach, too dull and hazy to make out. He melts into the softness of the blankets, aching muscles trembling. Everything hurts. Nothing makes sense. "Go away, please," he begs.
"Ok, Tallboy. Ok."
Ben cracks his eyes and watches through narrow slits as the man called Caleb, and his posse, huddle together on the far side of the strange, circular tent. They speak in hushed tones and he can't make out the words. He doesn't have to. They're discussing him, obviously. Caleb's hands dance while he speaks and Ben can't look away. The gesture is so familiar, it's as if he's seen it a thousand times before. He groans. Why can't I remember?
Three heads turn towards him in unison. Ben shuts his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Child's play he knows, but it's effective. They leave him be. Tent flaps open and a cool breeze lashes at his bare skin. He lies there, shivering, until covers are drawn to his chin and warmth encompasses him. The dark pool rushes up. He fights it back. He needs a plan.
Beneath the blankets, Ben troubleshoots his limbs. Clenching and unclenching his fists, squeezing and releasing his leg muscles, he readies them for action. But his captor retreats to the edge of the tent. Ben watches him pace round and round, until his vision spins and he fears he might be sick. That's when Caleb slides into the chair next to him, folds his arms behind his head and tilts the chair back until he's reclining. What are you doing?
"You can open your eyes now. It's just me and you."
Ben doesn't dare. Breathing in deep full breath and exhaling slowly, he hopes to keep his stomach contents in place. It takes all of his willpower, forcing him to shelve his escape plan, for now.
"Suit yourself, but I'm supposed to talk to you, so…" Caleb drones on, telling tales of a small coastal town nestled on the banks of the Long Island Sound.
The town is called Setauket and it sounds so quaint, Ben can almost envision it. There's a little white church, my father's church, allegedly, that sits on a hill overlooking the people. To the east is a small cemetery, where both Caleb's parents and his mother lie. Lost to fever, supposedly.
Ben tries to remember the smallest detail to confirm the truth of Caleb's recollections. The way the church floorboards creak, one of his father's famous sermons, or the sound of his mother's singing voice. But pain overrides everything, sending him adrift in a sea of stories about a youth he doesn't remember, until Caleb mentions a brother.
Samuel. I have a brother named Samuel!
Images of hair as fine as corn silk, a button nose that crinkles when it's owner laughs, and smiling bright eyes come to Ben. A memory of his brother's arm slung around his shoulders feels so real, Ben swears he can feel its warmth. This becomes his anchor as Caleb's stories crash over him. Head throbbing and body aching for sleep, Ben listens with interest as Caleb regales the chronicles of their childhood.
It's a series of firsts; dances, broken bones, and fights, stories typical of any boy's youth. The corners of Caleb's eyes crease. His lips form into a lopsided grin as he recalls the night Ben procured alcohol for the first time, in graphic detail. The story ends with Ben bent over the cemetery fence, emptying his stomach contents while the entire congregation looks on. An image of a man wearing a disapproving frown and a Reverend's smock blossoms in Ben's mind. Father.
"You think that's bad?" Caleb continues. "One night, I was on leave from whale boating, so I swung by for a visit. We were painting the town red, you, me, and Nate. All of a sudden, poof, you disappeared. Me and Nate search the city high and low, checking every bar and street, no one's seen you. All of a sudden there's this terrible screeching, like an alley cat dying, and here you come, running down the street, boots in hand, wearing nothing but your breeches." Caleb's laughter rolls in waves, like thunder on a summer night.
"Turns out some lonely widower took you home intending to make night of it, but you were three sheets to the wind and not in any shape to indulge her if you know what I mean. You managed to escape, but on the way out the door you tumbled into a table and spilled a bottle of Madeira all over the place. Seeing the mess, you tried to clean it up… using her best wig and a Bichon Frise named Fluffy."
The event is hazy, a consequence Ben suspects having less to do with his current state and more to do with the copious amount of spirits consumed that night. However, he remembers the morning after with great clarity. It wasn't a pleasant memory, but it was a memory. His memory, and it coincided with Caleb's recollection of the event. "I… didn't get out of bed…for...a week."
Caleb's head snaps towards him, mouth dropping open. "That's right Ben, you didn't."
Ben offers a half smile and clears his throat. "I'm…Th-irsty…"
His chair falls backwards as Caleb leaps to his feet. He returns with a small clay cup filled to the brim with water and presses it into Ben's hands. Ben takes a tentative sip, sighing with relief as the cool, liquid washes over his dry cracked tongue.
"Should get some food in ya too."
Ben agrees and Caleb morphs into a flurry of activity. He stokes the fire, pours water to a series of pots, and sets them on a rack over an open flame. Clay jars clink and clamor as he rifles through them. With two of the jars in tow he returns to the fire, tossing the contents of each jar into their own respective pots. "Coffee for me. Tea for you."
In the third pot he drops in chunks of bright orange roots that sort of resemble potatoes. "You'll like them. They're called sweet potatoes," Caleb tells him.
Earthy aromas and a distinct chocolate nutty odor interweave. Together, they expand throughout the tent. It smells delicious and Caleb grins when he catches Ben eying up the boiling pots. Ben smiles back. "I love coffee."
Caleb's smile broadens. "That ya do Ben. That ya do."