Clifford walked for three hours before deciding to stop for the night. According to the moon, there was about four hours of darkness left. He dug into his old travel bag and found a think blanket. Nestling against a fallen tree, he covered himself up and went to sleep. Schrodinger sat up as a watch against whatever animal or man might try to interfere in Clifford’s slumber.
Clifford stirred at first light. He brought out some of the remaining turkey meat he had, and ate that cold with some cheese, drinking water from the uphill-flowing river. He gathered his things, the guitar, old travel bag, and, with bundle shouldered, he started walking again. Schrodinger slept most of the time in the bundle.
Clifford walked, leaving Brigadier General Israel Putnam and the mysterious King’s Valley far behind. The land he traveled through gradually changed. The semi-desert-forest he’d encountered when he’d met Putnam (felt like days ago, was only the night before) gave way to a full-fledged forest. The Forest, after only an hour’s walk, became sparse and Clifford Jenkins, no longer sure if he was anywhere near as sensible as any man of 40 years, found himself in a meadow.
He crossed it at a brisk pace, wanting to reach Historia as soon as possible. Glancing behind him, toward the Mountains of Antiquity, he saw the snow-capped peaks rising above the forest. Somewhere back there was his family, wondering where he’d gone. Luckily he’d never married. Just never felt like it. He could see the sun glistening off the icy white tops of the mountains, and he was glad he’d come the way he had. The King’s Valley was infinitely easier to cross than the mountain pass would ever have been.
It was midday when Clifford tapped the bundle-stick and caused the mouse to scamper out, “What?”
“Look.”
They stood atop a high hill, and below them, in the dale, was a large farm, windmill turning slowly in the breeze, green grass turning to brown before their eyes. Schrodinger gasped. Clifford glanced at him, and then looked back at the farm.
The mouse jumped off the stick and onto Clifford’s shoulder, “This must be the farm of Pepperidge.”
Clifford unshouldered the bundle, dropped his old travel bag, and sat down in the grass, ready to play guitar for a bit and break the monotony of his journey, “You know, this land keeps getting stranger and stranger.”
Schrodinger settled onto his haunches next to Clifford and grinned (I know, I’ve told you that a sighing mouse is hilarious, a grinning mouse, though, is quite possibly the most serious thing ever seen. It’s anti-hilarity.) The mouse ran a fore-paw through his whiskers, “So what’re you going to play? Know anything Celtic?”
Clifford blinked, searching his own mind, “What’s Celtic?”
Schrodinger waved him off, “Nevermind. Play, my boy. Play.”
Clifford strummed once, a D-minor, and then began singing softly,
“Fill to me the parting glass,
And drink to health, what may befall,
Then gently rise, and softly call,
goodnight and joy be to you all.”
Schrodinger sat in silence until Clifford’s chorus was over, “You know that’s Celtic, right?”
Clifford leveled the guitar in his lap, “I know that it’s how we say goodbye to those we lose in Nostalgia. Tradition, I guess.”
Schrodinger laughed, “I think we should get going, Clifford. We can probably get some food at Pepperidge. Historia isn’t much farther.”
Clifford stood up, got up his things, and started walking again. His path took him to the farm, just as he knew it would. Somehow, he knew deep in his mind, he couldn’t avoid the farm. He could walk all the way around it, and over the next hill, and there the farm would be, waiting for him. Strange land.
On the porch of the farmhouse sat an older white man, “You need somethin’, boy?”
Clifford frowned, “Why does everyone keep calling me boy, I’m forty years old.”
The old man stood, grabbed a cane, and hobbled to him, “I’m Henry, but you can call me Hank if you want to. Some do, some don’t.”
“Clifford Jenkins, from Nostalgia.”
The old man grinned brightly, “Nostalgia, huh? Margaret, did you hear that? Nostalgia!”
A woman who looked to be in her late sixties came out on the porch, “You’re from Nostalgia? You have to eat with us tonight and tell us about it? Last I heard Nostalgia was a ghost town. That’s what Jamie said, and he’s a mail-boy from Historia, he wouldn’t lie.”
Clifford sat his travel bag on the porch, “The town isn’t deserted, trust me. I won’t say your mail-boy lied to you, though. He may have been told wrong.”
Henry looked at Margaret (Clifford assumed they were married) and said, “Go on and fix supper. I’m gonna show the boy around, then we’ll eat. Make some cookies too.”
She retreated back into the house. Clifford stepped back, leaving his travel bag and bundle on the porch, but keeping his guitar on his back. He looked up at the house, a two-story white building with little doghouses on the roof. Henry stepped off the porch and took Clifford by the elbow, “You didn’t run into Old Put, did you?”
“Who is Old Put?” Clifford, asked, realizing halfway through his question that Henry was referring to Israel Putnam, “Oh yes, I did.”
Henry stepped forward heavily, his cane sinking into the think grass, “He tried to recruit you for his war against the Valley, didn’t he? Took two of my boys out there. Said Historia needed them to fight back the outside, whatever that means.”
Clifford nodded, “We passed through the King’s Valley, and got no trouble while we were there.”
“Who’s we?” Henry asked.
Clifford suddenly thought of the bundle, and was about to move for it, when Schrodinger moved, revealing himself to be on Clifford’s shoulder. Clifford pointed up, “This is Schrodinger, the mouse.”
Henry offered a polite wave, then pointed to the guitar, “You play that thing, Cliff?”
Clifford nodded, “Yup. Been playing since I was nine.”
Henry smiled, “Great. That’s our after-supper music, then. Now, let me show you the rest of the farm. Oh, and you’re mouse may want to hide when we reach the barn. I got eighteen barn-cats would love him for dinner.”
Clifford chuckled and looked over at Schrodinger, who wore a horrified expression. Clifford lifted a finger and lightly poked the mouse on the side, “What’s wrong, Schrodinger? Cat got your tongue?”
Schrodinger’s expression went from horrified to downright offended, “That’s a horrible thing to say, Clifford Jenkins. A cat actually got my uncle’s tongue. It’s not a pretty sight. He can’t talk now.”
Henry was tapping his cane on the ground, “Did your mouse just talk?”
“He’s not exactly mine, if you take my meaning,” Clifford said, “And yeah, I was shocked when I found out. Turns out he’s pretty smart.”
Henry pointed to the barn, “Don’t I know it? All eighteen of my cats can talk.”
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