Chapter 9: If I Could Save Time in a Butler

"I'm getting too old for this," Greg grumbles, although he is only thirty.

The shipwrecked speaks out the side of his mouth, for his face is half-sunk in filthy lagoon bank. Semi-conscious, groaning Greg raises himself from the goop. On knees and elbows, he scoops turbid water to wash-off his mug. Kneeling, he sees something fascinating in the vicinity.

An unexpected scene. Strolling toward him are two women and a girl. However, the child either is Tana or is her spitting image. Offspring? It is the '90s. One woman is Gara if she has aged well over twenty years. And, one woman is Katie—looking more youthful than she has in two decades. Also, sis is not wearing the same attire from when the skiff sunk. She looks like the last time that Butlers visited the Valley of the Dinosaurs.

Standing, Greg sprints forward with wet and slop upon him. He seizes his sister into a big hug.

"Hey, do I know you, pal?" Katie kvetches.

"Katie, he is dressed like your tribe. Perhaps, he is glad to see his fellow," Gara notes, "Otherwise, it is natural for people to hug each other, touch forearms, and pat backs—depending on the circumstances. It is what you call 'context'. May healthy physical affection never fade from the Earth and the Americas in ten thousand years."

Greg releases Katie. "You should know me," the man states, "I'm your brother."

"You look like my uncle," Katie claims.

"Neither Mom nor Dad has a male sibling," states Greg correctly.

"Wow-ee, how do you know that?" big sis, in younger form, shows surprise.

"I'm your brother," Greg repeats.

"You're around ten?" Katie crooks an eyebrow (above light brown eyes), "Good gravy, 'Greg', did you have a great growth spurt?"

"Soon after we left the Valley, yeah," bro bobs his chin, "I had a few before Brezhnev died."

Katie chuckles, "Really? When did Leonid Brezhnev die? Is the Cold War over?"

"No, the Cold War concluded a little later," remarks Ranger Butler.

Momentarily, youth Katie considers the impossible. Finally, she sillily inquires, "Are you from the future?"

Momentarily, mum Greg considers recent conversation and his sister's unseasoned appearance. "Are you from the past?" he answers.

"Are you present?" Gara's index indicates Greg, "Or, are you an envoy from the gods? What are you?"

The man states, "I am Greg Butler, not an ancient astronaut."

"What is an ass-throw-naught?" Gara guardedly asks.

Katie grins, "Well, you look older, but I wouldn't say 'ancient'." She claps her brother on the back to show some acceptance.

Although, internally, the smart girl struggles to wrap her sharp mind around her boy brother's evolution. This present seeming situation is impossible. Isn't it? Empirical observation says one thing, and underlying scientific assumptions say another.

Tana takes initiative and Greg's hand, "Whoever you are, our tribe welcomes you—as we do all Gregory Butlers who emerge from the Black Lagoon."

"What?" wonders Greg.

"What?!" wails Katie, "There is only one Greg Butler." Her sibling smiles ostentatiously.

"What?" whispers Gara.

For a moment, Tana is a mite spooky. The little sprite sounds like one of those creepy kids who occur in literature—whether it be b-movies, books, or oral tradition. Tana has the towhead, wide light eyes, other-worldly expression, and reedy voice to be a scary scion from The Village of the Damned or The Scarlet Letter. Also, she just said Greg Butlers plural, as though there are others. Also, she just accepted this adult stranger as Greg Butler, about her age.

Although, one should note that Tana could have just been speaking in a higher register of English. The tribe welcomed the original Greg from the Black Lagoon, and they likewise welcome this person claiming to be Greg. Katie and Gara kind of hope that that is what Tana meant just now.

Turning home, Tana tugs gently at Greg's hand and leads him with lilting voice. Heels dug in, he hesitates. Tyke Tana's grip tightens threefold, and her voice tenses a tad. Temporarily, the explorer is as cautious as Shaggy or Scooby. But, he is also always curious like Velma, and any man must be cool like Fred. And, like Daphne, is not every hero oblivious to what could go wrong?

Relenting, Greg goes along and follows Tana down memory lane. She and he were good pals when he resided here in childhood. Plus, a person is always following the persistent phantoms of the past for life. Grown-up Greg is like Dr. Katie. He sometimes wishes that he could be in the Valley of the Dinosaurs—with childhood buddies and their adventures—forever. A wee, his whimsy is that he never left.

Greg Butler and his pal wend past the two women who continue to wonder what they just heard. Why would Tana speak such witchy words? Should they nicely wheedle an answer from her? Or, are they perhaps overly worried about mere words like wind?

There is a wind off the lagoon water. There is always a wind off the dark depths. The wind shifts around our tale's characters. The wind wraps Greg and the group. It is a changing wind, like time.

Watching short sorts scurry ahead, the wary women walk briskly behind them. Gara warns the children, Tana and Greg, to wait up, for worgs regularly roam this watering hole watching for prey. There are also weighty warthogs rambling 'round waiting to ram reckless kids—who don't listen to their elders. Alongside grousing Gara, Katie walks apace. She ponders recent words for a decasecond more; then, recent memory is gone from hers. Then, the green grown-up gleefully gooses her grumpy friend's (and guardian's] cheek and giddily gallops to the girl and boy. Katie catches up with the youngsters.

Tana yawps and giggles when tagged. Greg just yawns when Katie captures little brother in a half-hug. However, he abruptly notices the awfully odd. Greg notices that he is no longer taller than big sis. Rather, the man is only a ways above her waist. Reeling, the ranger recons his clothing, which feels different. It is not the earlier attire from the skiff: all khaki like Jungle Jim or father John. Instead of that, he has a red sweatshirt, ragged blue jeans, and no shoes. His shoe size ain't his usual either. His apparel and appearance have changed to a size and style that he has not worn in years, twenty years. Gobsmacked, Greg grabs head hair thicker than it has been in a long while. But, hirsute is how boys wore their heads back in 1974. Scratching his chin, Butler bafflingly finds no beard. Greg is agape.

Winking, Katie wryly converses, "Are you feeling a little short—tempered?" The astute aspiring amateur anthropologist and professional biologist observes bro's body language.

"What?" Greg wrenches free. Greg bristles, but not in irritation, rather in slight shock.

Something surprising dawns upon sister Katie. Namely, dawn's early light illuminates her big brown eyes and immaculate white blouse. A blink ago, the time was early afternoon—as indicated by the sun.

Likewise, Ranger Greg does not get how reverse solar movement possibly happens. Greg pronounces, "Just call me Jackie Earle Haley because I need a Rorschach test."

"What?" Katie conveys curiosity.

"From that 2009 Watchmen movie," Greg clarifies, "Wait, how do I know about a 2009 film?"

"You couldn't," Katie declares confusion, "Come on, kid, we haven't been in the Valley that long. No one watches the Watchmen to my knowledge. Are they cartoon characters?"

"No, comic characters like Christopher Chance," Greg comments.

Girls and adults do not read comics, and other crude literature, in 1974. "So, they are comedians?" Katie quizzes.

"No, just one Watchman is," replies Greg.

"What?" Tana conveys confusion. These Butlers' chitchat is gibberish to the cavechild.

"Okay," Greg assures, "I am breaking away from the Jackie Earle Haley stuff. I do not even know who he is besides the voice of me on Valley of the Dinosaurs."

"In the Valley of the Dinosaurs. We are in the Valley of the Dinosaurs," Ma Gara corrects, "And, young Greg, every man should have his own voice and personality, not some spook he dreams up like Freddy Krueger."

"I suppose," says the boy. He pivots to proceed home and plants his feet.

But promptly, it is not morning; it is night.

Greg pops his legs up-and-down and pirouettes in circles as drum percussion possesses the people at the Feast of Plenty. Playfully and joyfully, everyone—including ebullient Katie—pumps their ankles and arms to the pleasing sound. Suddenly, pealing flutes, from a pair of pipers, join the drums, and the primitive piccolos complement the conga and bongo patter. Then, a purring mouth harp, perfectly plucked and played, pleasingly joins the existing instruments. The partiers of Plenty frolic with even further fervor.

However, in their agitated midst, kid Greg pauses, and he peers around. To the east and to the west, night is present, and the time is neither dawn nor dusk. In the near distance, Dad and Gorak speak by the festival's big, blazing bonfire. Drawing at their feet, Tana lazily lies at this late hour as though she would drift off and dream. Heady himself, Greg thinks that there were just things that he was thinking about. Just now, his hazy mind visited the Appalachians back home. Then, he was on a boat with a pretty gal, and a monster attacked. . . . . Perspective spins. He traveled home to the Valley, and Katie gave him a big hug. He was tall; then, he was smaller. Kid Greg does not know the word "surreal", but that is what recent experience was.

Suddenly, Katie catches Greg in her arms again. "Hey, squirt, celebrate a bit".

Big sister lifts little brother and slings him in circles. Smiling, he screeches and smiles. The whimsical wrestler whirls the runt's weight a few rotations before—winded—becoming wiser. Katie plants her prize back down. She goes to maybe get some of that soda water that Dad whipped up.

Greg sighs. He sucks in some air. Around him, the circle of spinning celebrants widens a wee. They call-out in joy, and their joint jig seemingly jangles the very ground upon which Greg stands. The junior scientist views the seriously shaking ground—almost anticipating an earthquake. Of course, no such upheaval should be occurring. By the odds and the idol Keeper of the Waters (E8), the event is unlikely.

Still, peering peepers do go wide, for the very interesting appears before them. In the sand, certain impressions stand. Namely, ichnites. As John Butler's kid knows, those are fossilized footprints, or other tracks, left by past beings a long time ago. They can be from a Jurassic creature megayears ago. They can be from a human individual millennia ago. However, unequivocally, they are old footprints, not new.

Now, ichnites appear where Katie stood, danced, and walked away. They trail toward her talking up Dad and Gorak over yon. Old Boy Scout Greg follows them to the campfire. Along the way, it astonishes him to find the modern human footprints stony hard in the soft sand. The situation makes no sense. Those steps formed circa sixty seconds ago. The hardy boy ponders the mystery. Perhaps, at the Feast of Plenty, he sipped some soured mango juice, or he might have slurped some mushroom soup meant strictly for tribespeople.

Bemused, Greg spots the sand on Katie's soles and the tracks terminating exactly at her seat. He doesn't stare though. Rather, the future ranger startles and stands straight, for something scare him. For one shortest second, his family and friends—John, Katie, Gorak, and Tana—appear fossilized skeletons sitting in shocking tableau. Boy Butler blinks. The quartet come back as they were. The wind passes, and it feeds the fire.

The flames flicker fiercely and fan to formidable height. The blaze abruptly blinds Greg Butler, and he covers his sight. However, the brightness promptly abates, and the lad lowers his hands. He exclaims. His four dear ones are desiccated mummies situated around a dead fire's ash! Juddering, the junior's jaw drops. John drops into a dusty pile—bones jutting forth. Greg jumps, jarred. Gorak joins John. Greg jolts. As by juju, Katie generates noise from her jerky-like jowls. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" disturbs the air. Jiggling creaky joints, Katie points to the adjoining jungle. Jeering, Tana's djinn jostles upright. It points in the opposite direction: Jupiter, the "wood star", in the jeweled sky. Jonesing to flee, Greg follows his genial sister's finger. His jaunters, legs, jet—without lag.

The jeopardized juvenile judges wisely. Astoundingly, ichnites eerily extend beyond the extinguished inferno to the jungle's edge. Eventually, they could reach the Black Lagoon, for they head in that direction. The deft denarian deliberates on his doozy dilemma. He must deduce something about the deviant occurrences around him. Otherwise. . . . .

Din disturbs the boy. Directly behind him, the merriment has resumed with a full company. Greg discerns everyone from the Butlers to the drummers. Then, the boy's dog shows up. Like a detective, Digger sniffs the tracks to Master Greg who greets him heartily. Although, Greg does wonder whether Digger followed Katie's petrified peds or the boy's own tracks to the camp periphery. The current conundrum could cause a clever kid delirium.

The dog growls and barks at somebody in the dark, dense forest. The lad turns to look. Bork and his torch cut through the thick blackness. Back months ago, the tribesman disgraced himself by framing Lok for a misdeed (E9), so fellow villagers ban Bork from the Feast of Plenty. Upon reaching boy Butler, the beady-eyed hunter bows.

"Beware," Bork utters, "The forest and lagoon are not safe destinations at night. Sharp teeth search for snacks to snatch. You could be one."

"Or, Katie could be," suggests the aspirant sleuth, "Did she pass by recently?"

Bork balks, "Your sister sits securely by your sire's side." He points.

"So, you did not see her," Greg supposes correctly.

The nascent scientist scans the sandy soil in the torch's light. All prints are now his or Digger's. A sliver scared, Greg slips back to the bonfire and plans to get some sleep, preferably near a protective parent. Sixth-graders are not always great psychologists, but they can tell when the wind isn't blowing right.