Chapter III.
"Mr. Bennett!"
Jamie cries out in surprise as he's rudely awoken by the yelling and slamming of his bedroom door. Flailing, he falls off the bed and slams into a concrete floor covered by a prickly rug.
"Ow! What the fuck, Sophie!"
"There is no Sophia here, boy!" Booms an unfamiliar voice.
"What?" Blinking his eyes open, Jamie gets an eyeful of decaying straw while his nostrils are suddenly bombarded with the pungent smell of damp mold and rot.
Turning to his back, Jamie spots an unfamiliar man in a wide-brim hat standing over him with his arms crossed. The view into the man's hairy nostrils is highly unpleasant.
"Get up, before I force you." The man grumbles. Obeying in a state of utter shock, he hastily stands. Jamie is then greeted by dim predawn sunlight streaming through the barred window, illuminating the poorly wrought stone walls, damp hay on the similarly stone floor, and a lonely little bench he realizes he'd been sleeping on as a makeshift bed.
Behind the burly man the dead bolted door is open, the frame leading his view into the narrow hallway from last night.
Last night…
"Oh, no." He murmurs aloud. Oh shit, he doesn't say.
Jamie remembers now: waking up in the forest with Jack, trying to find some place to rest, meeting the old man and his search party, then finally ending up in a village. Without Jack.
"Jack!" He exclaims, "where's Jack?"
"He is resting with his family." explains the man, arms still crossed over his bulky chest.
That draws Jamie up short. "Family?" He queries in confusion. Jack has family here? Here in this unfamiliar village where everyone seems to know each other, including Jack, he recalls from last night. Something really isn't adding up here…
"Yes." snaps the man. "The Overlands."
Jamie's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. This he most certainly does not know or fully understand. He knew these assumptions were insensitive and rather rude, but these new revelations floored him. When they first were getting to know each other as friends, Jack had told him he was three hundred years old and young Jamie had asked him about his life in the colonial era once the mind-blowing math had added up, but Jack had instead clammed up. Jamie, in turn, hesitantly joked about the frayed pants he wore and Jack laughed it off like nothing. There the two had switched topics and Jamie hadn't brought up Jack's past like that again.
Safe to say, Jack was a mystery and kept quite a bit of secrets a small part of Jamie eagerly wanted to unravel.
But now wasn't the time.
"Okay," he sighs, calmer. "May I see him?"
"No."
"What? Why?"
"We do not know who you are. You arrived here with Jackson, and we know you are not from this land. Mr. Overland needs his rest, and you are no physician."
Jamie sputters. And how do you know I'm not a physician? "Can I ask for permission to see him?"
"No." The man repeats. "You will be coming with me to be questioned."
"Questioned?"
"Are you simple in the head? You are a foreigner trespassing on our land, as a spy or trader we do not know. He has waited long enough. Come!"
The man takes hold of his arm tightly, and pulls him to the thick wooden door. He does so without a fight, stepping away from the muggy atmosphere of the jail cell and into fresher air. With the sun beginning its rise at dawn, Jamie is better able to see his surroundings. Through the hallway they entered a spacious room that had everything he'd seen with the lantern light overnight, with the addition of some muted colors on some of the handmade furniture and parts of the walls.
Without much of a flourish, the duo bursts out from the tiny front doorway and into a rush of cold wind that sends goosebumps down Jamie's arms. He's momentarily blinded by the overcast sunlight after a night in near pitch black darkness, his eyes having adjusted to that lonely environment.
But now aided by the daylight, Jamie is able to get a clearer view of what he is facing for the foreseeable future. A quiet void greets him.
Of course, the ground is still muddy and wet, but now is tinted with the beginnings of winter. Meager puddles glossed over with thin sheets of ice, some of the surrounding trees naked with their hibernation. About ten feet in front of him is a wooden clapboard house burping smoke from the chimney, its thatched roof coated in a soft layer of frost. Around it is a fence made from what Jamie assumed were tree saplings. In all honesty, it looked pathetic.
There isn't much time to process everything as the man kept a firm grip on Jamie's arm, nearly bruising in its strength, as they passed by several houses and buildings of very similar architectural design clustered together like a close-knit family. Some were as huddled together close as six feet, but others he could see were more than ten feet apart, possibly to make room for the sad little fences that encased some of the properties. Never had everything looked so drab and gray.
The man marches him down the muddy lanes of trampled dirt, passing by a shed in the outskirts of the village boundaries, a well that appeared empty, and Jamie couldn't help but gawk at the wagon that passed by, making eye contact with the man at the reins. He quickly looked away at the narrowed gaze and stumbled along with his jailer's faster pace.
Eventually they reached a large house with a two gable facade, two stories high and patterned with shuttered waxed windows. Of course it is unpainted clapboard and so utterly boring. At the stone steps to the door stood several men, including the William guy that had shut him up in the jail last night, the overcoat dude whose name he didn't know, and finally an unfamiliar man with long brown hair wearing a gray felt hat.
"Where are we?"
"Magistrate Sufford's house, boy."
Magistrate? Wasn't that a kind of judge? Or an inspector that oversaw trials? Politics really wasn't Jamie's forte.
"Lord Sufford!" Calls the man at his arm, pulling ever stronger, addressing the trench coat man who turns, eyeing Jamie with disdain.
"Aye, Richard?" addresses the man who is supposedly Lord Sufford. Was this man the He his tour guide had mentioned earlier? Jamie wondered. The mysterious man that's going to interrogate him?
"Are you prepared now?" asked the man holding Jamie's arm—Richard, he'd said.
"Yes, yes." said the lord, "enough languishing. Come in." He and the long-haired man made way to the batten door, on which Mr. Sufford raised his fist and rapped once.
Moments later, there was a quiet click followed by a small squeal as the wooden door swung open to reveal a woman at the entrance. Resigned to his new fate, Jamie only sighed in exasperation at the sight of the woman's outdated clothes: a bonnet hiding most of her graying hair and drab petticoat swishing over her feet.
He had already become used to the fact that he was likely stuck here, wherever he'd landed.
"James! Come hither!" Bellows Sufford suddenly, startling Jamie. Richard abruptly pushed him forward and the young man neared obediently, eyeing the man in the long coat warily.
"My wife, Sarah Sufford, will house you for the day while we all inquire about your whereabouts." explained the man, gesturing to his wife, who eyes Jamie, attempting zero effort to hide her disgust, thin lips pulling into an ugly sneer. Jamie kept his face blank. Definitely no friendly faces around here. Jamie thought in despair.
"You will address me as Goody Sufford, boy." The woman snaps at him, plain blue eyes ice cold. None of the men rebuked her. Maybe she was in a position of power? Or was it just pure pettiness?
"Yes, ma'am." Jamie definitely did not squeak in the brunt of the woman's wrath. Her sneer became more pronounced, huffing when her husband proffered a hand into their house. Meekly, Jamie silently entered, doing his best to not hunch his shoulders in the face of intimidation.
Inside, the house wasn't much to look at. It was interesting, however, to see the extent of the architecture in this strange world: narrow halls, raw wood beams fitted into the walls—and the ceiling being built of entirely wood beams, low over their heads—windows with only one shuttered pane instead of two to keep in the heat—which, Jamie remembers, likely meant no insulation—and creaking hardwood floors. Directly to his right was a wide open fireplace, cold and lifeless, with an old-fashioned rifle (musket?) held on a rack on the brick wall above; a few feet to the right, deeper into the large house, was a table set for four, yet there were only two residents here with the group. Jamie wonders idly if the Suffords have any children.
In a dark corner, Jamie could see a set of steep stairs leading to the second floor.
Once he's done ogling the interior, Lord Sufford guides him to a chair by another table set, longer in width than the dining table and situated by the window instead of the depths of the room.
The long-coated man takes the seat across from him, removing his hat and placing it on the table. Manners, perhaps? Jamie wonders inwardly. Beside him stands Mrs. Sufford, or Goody Sufford—whatever that means—Richard with the keys at his belt, and the long haired younger man. Jamie tries not to fidget nervously at the inquiring stares of the strangers around him. Even after all these tiring hours, everything is scarily unfamiliar.
"Worry not, James." starts Mr. Sufford, reaching for a piece of paper from a stack. "This is merely an informal questioning. The heads of the court will question you another time."
Hold on, what? More questions? From people even higher up than this Lord Sufford? Wasn't he a magistrate; a part of the political court? Is this so-called interrogation not enough for these untrusting people?
"Okay," is all Jamie says.
"Good." He reaches of a fucking quill and dips it into an goddamn inkpot that is placed by the corner of the weird-looking paper, or is it real parchement? After a few dabs, he inks on a date that, even reading it upside down, sends Jamie reeling.
16 September 1712
What. The. Fuck.
Jamie tried to not let his panic show.
It's clearly autumn now, but what the hell? Why did the man date the year as 17-fucking-12? Is it not 2021 and all the global craziness that comes with it? Yet with this new information, Jamie now sees their outdated clothes, utensils, architecture, and speech patterns in a whole new light. No, this wasn't him experiencing hallucinations or actors in a very well-made film, but something unthinkable.
Time travel.
Time travel.
Time. Travel.
"Time travel," he whispers in horror and awe all at once.
"What was that?" Asks Mr. Sufford while now blotting down words in an unreadable cursive, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing."
Realizing he was with an audience amidst his terrifying revelation, Jamie immediately put on his best poker face, which wasn't great in terms of total control, knowing he needed to choose his words very carefully. It was important to his and Jack's safety that he didn't slip up. He does not look into the piercing eyes of the Sufford woman, who Jamie is sure is eyeing him like he's an open book waiting to be torn apart. His heart raced in the face of a possible harsh and tough interrogation.
"Shall we begin?" Queries the man in front of him, separated by a few feet of rickety wood. Jamie nods.
After a few more blots of ink, the man begins. "We are gathered here in the name of the Lord as witnesses: I as Lord Sufford, my wife Goody Sufford, Deputy Richard Smith are gathered today on the 16th of September 1712 in Hawthorne within the Province of Pennsylvania."
Pennsylvania, yes! Jack was right, they were on the east coast! Jamie hid a relieved smile. But this Hawthorne place, he's never heard of. Generally speaking, he still didn't know where he'd ended up.
Mr. Sufford watches him. "Your name, young man?"
He doesn't stutter this time. "Jamie Bennett."
"And from where have you come?"
"Philadelphia, Pennsylvania." He answers half-truthfully. Figuring Burgess wasn't in question—or even exists yet—he'd go for second best. Jamie wasn't from Philadelphia but he definitely was born in Pennsylvania. For a moment, his heart slowed its race against his ribs in sheer relief.
A scoff is heard from Sufford's wife. Jamie tries to ignore it.
"How did you arrive here with Jackson?"
Now that was a bit tougher to lie or be honest about. "I don't quite remember," he starts hesitantly, thinking quickly. "I woke up in the forest with Jack. We walked around for a while before the search party found us."
"Interesting…" Sufford murmurs, scribbling with his quill, not at all easing Jamie's nervousness.
"Do you have family, Mr. Bennett?" came the sudden question after a moment, catching him off guard.
Jamie blinked in confusion. "Yes," he answered truthfully, "A sister and my mother."
Mr. Sufford hums in thought, continuing his writing on the old paper with his quill. If Jamie had to rely on using quills as a form of writing instead of pens or pencils, which seems increasingly likely, he would need quite a bit of practice using them. He envied the expertise and control of the man's hand on the quill, eyeing the paper and spotting very little accidental spills of ink. The man was even more precise with dipping the quill in the inkpot, dabbing just the right amount of black liquid onto the boney tip.
And again, is somehow reminded of Jack. Jack, who he hadn't seen since last night with the old man.
"Excuse me?" Jamie prods.
"Yes?" Lord Sufford's attention is focused on him now, instead of the parchment. Idly, Jamie wonders what he's writing—about him, Jack, or something else.
"May I speak freely?"
The man nods. "Of course."
"Is Jack okay?"
Sufford sighs, setting down his quill and steepling his hands on the table. "He is well; resting with his family down the road. However, I am curious how you know him so well, if at all?" His eyes become piercing in their glare, narrowing in what Jamie supposed was suspicion.
"How," He continued quietly, "you appeared with him in tow? With the strange clothes and shoes you wear, with the strange language you speak? Jackson had gone with his sister into the woods—" Jack has a sister? "—and the girl had returned empty-handed. In tears, the poor one was. Never spoke of how she had become separated from her dear brother." The older man shakes his head, unaware his words were captivating Jamie with their untold story as he spoke. "And then you arrived with him, an unknown person in the village."
"I—"
A sudden loud thud from outside the house stops Jamie from explaining himself, followed by a muffled curse, then s series of knocks fall against the flat wood, rushed and desperate sounding.
"What is it now?" Goody Sufford grumbles, dusting off her skirt, heading to the door and opening it with an irritated flourish. Her mighty scowl falls into surprise at the sight before her. "Jackson?" She sputters in disbelief.
Hearing this, Jamie erupts from his seat, rushing to the door to see his friend Jack at the door, gasping for breath. In his hand is a familiar staff, though he seemed to be leaning on it more heavily than usual. His hair is still shockingly brown and horrendously average (for such a bright spirit like Jack Frost, at least).
His eyes are wide. And suspiciously red and puffy. Had he been crying?
"Jamie?" His voice is hushed. Hoarse.
Jamie's smile is wide. "Jack!"
Despite their audience, Jamie eagerly leaps into Jack's arms, squeezing him tight, noting the tremble in his friend's arms, deciding not to mention it knowing his friend probably wouldn't appreciate it.
"Ahem!"
Jack immediately pulls away from Jamie's arms, sort of shoving him out of the way as well, not noticing his friend's hurt frown. Behind him a woman with short cropped hair rapidly approaches, huffing as she holds her skirt. "Jackson Overland!"
"Yes, Mother?" Jack asks, breathlessly, ducking his head sheepishly.
Jamie watches this exchange in surprise and a little awe. Was this woman Jack's mother? With her short brown hair sloppily covered with a white bonnet and plain brown dress and her face nearly identical to Jack's—including the softer feminine touch? Jamie appraises her with new eyes, eyeing the stiff posture of anger, her knuckles clenched tight in the folds of her petticoat, and her arching brows furrowed in a deep frown.
Even having just met her, despite not knowing her name, Jamie can see where Jack gets his stubbornness and mischief from, born through this fiery woman sporting quite the furious red face. He bites his lip to hide a laugh, but it is quenched by the worry he feels for Jack with his too pale skin and the odd flush to his cheeks.
"Why are you walking when you are so sick?" She demands, "You are supposed to be resting, young man! It is too soon for you to be up and about!"
"I apologize, Mother." Jack says quietly as the others watch impassively. Goody Sufford has her arms crossed and a deep scowl etched onto her aged face while Richard and Johnathan remain silent.
"Good! Now, you must come to bed, now." The red in her face diminishes and she suddenly seems much calmer, her eyes flicking between her son and Jamie. He isn't sure what to make of the sudden attention.
"You, young man, what is your name?"
Feeling like a broken record, Jamie repeats for the third or fourth time. "Jamie Bennnett."
"And you are my son's friend, are you not?"
Jamie nods.
Richard speaks up then after his time of silence, approaching the three from the doorstep. "Ah, we are still questioning the boy, madam. If you will…?" He reaches for a hand to Jamie, but him being caught between two people causes him to hesitate. Jamie can't help but feel a little silly.
"Uh…"
"Why are you questioning the poor dear, Minister Heard?" blurts Jack's mother. "He is in need of some good rest, as well, isn't he?"
Goody Sufford scoffs again. "This is not how things go, Widow Overland—" Jamie notes a subtle flinch from the Overland woman, and surprisingly Jack, too. "He is here for questioning, not coddling. He is a foreigner, mind you. My husband will take him to the court for more interrogations, as is proper."
Clearly there was a rivalry between the two women, based on Goody Sufford's not so subtle jabs toward Mrs. Overland. Jack seemed to be affected too, a fire in his amber brown eyes that dared the woman to speak further ill about his mother.
"I'll not have the boy dragged around like a child's plaything, Sufford." Mrs. Overland snaps, earning an offended gasp from the older woman. "He needs his rest. Why in the seven hells is he being interrogated when he should be abed? I have heard he was housed in the jail, as well! I will have gladly provided a bed for him, woman!"
Jamie slowly backs away, seeing the hell that was about to be risen from the two squabbling women as the men try to ease the tension, and Jack follows his lead, stepping back with caution.
"What the hell is going on, Jack?" He whispers to his friend.
Jack, still leaning against his staff that appeared no more than a dead piece of wood than the powerful weapon it used to be, answers hoarsely. "I don't know, Jamie." It seems Jack doesn't really know how to respond in his lingering shock. Jamie feels the same.
"I think it's time travel." He replies as helpful as he can. Jack scoffs. "You think?"
Jamie thinks for a moment. "Is that really your mother?"
Jack laughs, then coughs once. "Yes, duh."
"How?" Jamie asks, knowing Jack would understand his question. Instead he shakes his head, hair flopping in the loose wind. "I still don't know."
"He drowned?!"
Goody Sufford's abrupt shriek is loud against the low breeze, startling the duo from their small talk. Jack's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates as his skin turns pallid, and Jamie frowns in confusion at the odd reaction. What did she mean drowned?
"Boy!" Her voice reaches a pitch. "You drowned?"
"Goody Sufford!" Lord Sufford admonishes with a glare, grabbing his wife's sleeves.
Jamie suddenly feels very off-kilter. "Wait, what?"
Quickly, without a second glance, Mrs. Overland reaches over and grabs both boys' wrists and pulls them away, her face a ruddy red once again. The Sufford woman is shouting still, and her husband raises his voice, trying to be heard over her awful screeching while Richard watches awkwardly.
Thrown from under his feet, all Jamie can do is allow himself to be tugged away from the magistrate's house, and further down the worn path past more clusters of clapboard houses.
"Jack?" Jamie huffs with worry.
Jack doesn't respond. His eyes are distant, his skin clammy in the overcast sunlight.
Their walk back is long and quiet, interrupted by the Overland woman's muttering and Jack's raspy breaths.