Historia, Part IV

Clifford awoke about an hour before sunrise, but it felt like a much longer night. As he shook his head to ward of sleep, he felt strands of matted hair hit the sides of his face. Perhaps the night had been years long, dang the Historians!

Time was when the people of Nostalgia never had to worry about Father Time and his minions causing trouble. They were, so the elders said, once a group of monks who just stared at clocks all day. The higher level masters of the order, it was said, could cause a clock to run backward just by looking at it.

Clifford had once caused a clock to run backward, but it was more the result of playing catch in the house with his older brother. And dang had his granpappy been mad about that. This was, obviously, before ‘the cough’ ever claimed Granpappy and forced Clifford into his ‘death watch.’

Clifford Jenkins pushed himself up off the dead tree stump and walked over to a small row of bushes. It was there that he did his business, as any man would in the wild. He walked back to his makeshift camp and sat close to the remnants of the fire. A little stoking and prodding brought forth a small flame, and Clifford warmed his hands over it before deciding what route to take that day. The mountain pass would be difficult, as the snows were already falling. The King’s Valley would be the easiest way, but Clifford really didn’t like the people who lived there. They walked funny, or at least that’s how is Granpappy had put it.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out two dice. He looked over that the fire again, “Alright, little flame, you’re my witness. Evens and I go to the mountain pass, odds and I take the King’s Valley.” He blew on the dice three times for luck and blessing, then cast them over against the dead tree stump.

Nine. King’s Valley it was.

Clifford stood and brushed off his pants. He pulled the jacket tighter around himself, forcefully thinking away the cool morning air.

He looked off to the west and saw the constellation Hendrix dipping to the horizon. Of course, in our time we didn’t call it Hendrix, we called it Orion, but mythology had be rewritten, lost, written, and then replaced by the people many times over from the time we first chronicled it to the time Clifford Jenkins awoke from a long slumber against a dead tree stump. The night couldn’t have been too long, because as he stirred Schrodinger the mouse scurried out of the bundle and looked on, anticipating a cheesy breakfast.

“Dang, you’re hungry, mouse,” Clifford mused, using the Swedish Navy knife to cut small slivers from the cheese block.

“Of course,” Schrodinger replied.

Clifford froze.