Detour, Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original characters or places.

Bosco was completely baffled by the whole situation. He had no idea where he was and no idea where the plane, or what must be left of it, was. All he knew was he hurt, he was thirsty, and it was getting hotter as the morning went on. Once he determined that sitting on a stump wasn't helping anything, he decided to follow the trail that the pigs had taken. Maybe they belonged to someone and he'd find help. He assumed that they weren't wild since they didn't try to hurt him. So, knitting needle in hand, he started out.

The trail was narrow and led over several steep wooded hills. Bosco found himself stumbling and having to hold onto small saplings as he made his journey. He stopped several times because he felt lightheaded. Twice he fell downhill, sliding through the leaves and twigs on his hands and knees, causing his left knee to bleed again.

Finally he came to the edge of a small ravine with a stream running along the bottom of it. Looking along its length for a place to cross, he spotted two worn planks that went from one side of the ravine to the other. Upon closer inspection, he wasn't sure how steady the planks would be. Looking down to the left, he saw an old tree that had fallen across the stream itself. He contemplated taking that route, but the tree was covered with brush and mud that made it more treacherous. Besides, he knew that he was wearing down quickly and was afraid if he climbed into the ravine he might not be able to get up the other side.

Looking back at the two planks that were side by side, he gingerly put his foot out to test their sturdiness. When he did so, he became dizzy again and teetered on the edge of the bank. Backing up, once he regained his balance, he grabbed onto a small tree and took a steadying breath. Deciding against walking across, he knelt down and began to crawl across the planks on his hands and knees. It was a slow and painful process, but he soon found himself safe on the opposite side. Pulling himself up on a nearby sapling, he wiped the sweat and blood from his face and trudged along in a daze.

Ezra Clemm was busy hoeing in his garden, when his black and tan hound let out a mournful howl. Ezra was a tall man in this fifty's, pleasantly overweight, with thick graying hair and a scruffy beard. He pulled a handkerchief from the bib pocket of his overalls and mopped his brow, looking up to see what the dog was making a fuss over.

Seeing a half crazed man stumble out of the woods, he gripped his hoe tightly in his right hand. The dog barked and howled furiously at the approaching visitor. "Shhhh…..shush, Rebel. Get on back up on the porch." The dog reluctantly did as told.

Taking a step forward, Ezra studied the man approaching, while keeping his guard up. His clothes were torn and mud covered. Blood dripped from his forehead and from his knee. He stumbled almost as if he were drunk. And he carried something in his hand that looked like…..a knittin needle? Ezra wondered if he might have escaped from prison or maybe even the state mental ward.

"Oh, thank God!" Bosco half-shouted. "You have to help me! There's been a plane crash! I need to call for help."

When Bosco stepped within a few feet, Ezra stuck his large hand out catching Bosco in the chest and pushing him away slightly, causing him to stumble backward. "Now just hold on, sonny, and take a step back there." Ezra ordered, adjusting the hoe in his grip. "Who are you and what are ya doin in my woods?"

"What?" Bosco looked at the man, confused. "My plane crashed! There's a plane full of people in your woods! Somewhere. I need to call for help! Please, you have to help me!"

"Everythin alright, Pa?"

Ezra looked up to see his wife, Myrtle, a few feet in front of the porch and coming their way. From her look, he knew that she had his .45 revolver hidden under her apron just in case. "This young chap says there's been a plane crash, Ma." Ezra answered, as Bosco turned and stumbled toward the woman.

"You have to help me! Please!" Bosco pleaded.

His approach to Myrtle was cut short by Ezra grabbing onto his left arm and jerking him to a halt. "Now you just hold on, boy. You stay away from my wife."

Bosco stumbled when Ezra yanked him back. The world around him began to spin and his vision dimmed. Reaching out, he grabbed onto the front of Ezra's overalls. "Please" he begged, tears streaming down his face. "Help me." His knees buckled and he started to go down, but Ezra caught him.

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Bosco could feel himself being carried, but couldn't open his eyes.

"Take and put 'im in Herman and Junior's room, Pa. Wanda Sue, quit gawkin and go get the turpentine." Myrtle ordered.

'Turpentine?' Bosco, in his jumbled thoughts, wondered what turpentine had to do with anything.

"What's goin on in there? Who is that young fella?" Grandma Clemm croaked.

"Never you mind, Grandma. Just keep your seat."

"I'm already up now." Grandma grumbled, looking down at the semi-conscious form that Ezra had placed on the bed. "Ezzzzra! You gonna get my quilt dirty. That boy's filthy. Looks like he's done been in the pig pen."

"I'm sorry, Grandma. Little fella's a might heavier'n he looks." Ezra replied, catching his breath.

"I got the turpentine, Ma." Wanda Sue reported. "Can I help?"

"Turpentine" Bosco mumbled.

"No, you ain't helpin." Ezra answered, before Myrtle could. "This here's a job for the women folks."

"But, Pa, I'm 22." Wanda Sue protested.

"I don't care. You ain't got no business in here when they clean this boy up. Now get!" Ezra ordered and pointed to the door.

Wanda Sue crossed her arms over her chest with a "Hmmph" and left.

"Will you two be ok with 'im?" Ezra asked.

"We'll be fine, Pa." Myrtle assured him. "The shape he's in, he couldn't hurt a flea no way."

"Good. I'm gonna go look for this here plane the boy was mutterin on about."

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Bosco could hear voices and feel hands tugging at his clothes, but he couldn't make them out clearly. Then he felt a scorching pain. Almost as if his flesh was on fire. He tried to call out for help, but all he could manage was a muffled cry.

Again, through the pain, he heard voices. More turpentine. Wouldn't want his leg to rot off. Eww, that's nasty.

Then more voices, calling his name. Maurice. Mr. Boscorelli. Do you know where you are?

'I'm in Hell' he thought, but couldn't speak. 'Help me. Somebody, help me.'