Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson 3

The Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson

Chapter Three

"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe-

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew."

(Eugene Field)

The Traveler Awakes

Southeast Iowa, Lee County – 1865

Voices, little boy voices, muttering softly, quietly, intruded on my awakening consciousness. "Thank God," I thought, "at least I'm not dead."

Hopefully that wasn't the case, but I really didn't know for certain. I'd had little interest in religion or an afterlife up until this point in time, so I hadn't given it much thought. What I did know, my head hurt like hell; a thousand hammers pounded on it and in it and the rest of my body ached unbearably. Every muscle, every bone seemed tortured; it was as if I'd been ripped asunder and glued back together again, with lousy glue I might add! If, I thought, this is what the rack of medieval times felt like, I really pitied the poor condemned people subjected to it!

At least I was comfortably ensconced in a bed. Whoops! Why in hell was I in a bed and, after running a hand down my stomach and encountering my pieces parts, as naked as the day I was born? Who put me here and who in the hell undressed me? Just where was I? Dreamily, I had sensations, after I sank into a state of unconsciousness, of bouncing about, the sounds of a burro or donkey braying, large hands and arms, carrying me, and of smaller, more delicate, smooth hands touching, massaging, and fondling my body, especially my nether regions! Where those hands touched could've only been in my dreams, I thought!

Again, a little boy's voice asked a question in a language vaguely familiar to me from my high school days where I enrolled in two years of it but not used since, and another boy answered,

"Je ne crois pas!'" and I understood, with some struggling, ("I don't think so!")

If the question was concerning my death, the second lad was correct; I was very much alive, I thought; damaged, but not beyond repair!

A third voice, softer but very similar to voice number two, asked, "M'sieu? Parlis vous Francais?"

"Oui," I answered, slowly nodding my aching head, still trying to open my eyes.

"Comment t'appelles-tu?" asked boy three.

"Je m'appelle Thomas Johnson, (which came out Jeansonne)," I replied in my halting French, adding, "Parlez-vous Anglais?"

All three answered with a quick "Oui!"

I cracked open my eyes and shook the sleep from my mind, determined to locate and identify, or least give face to, the boys and the voices I heard. Turning my head, where it rested on a fluffy, almost feathery type pillow, I opened my eyes fully and focused on three young boys, squatting on their haunches, butts resting on the backs of their legs, arms across their knees, bare feet on the braided carpet covering the immediate area near the bed, and obviously in close observation of my every move and activity since their eyes darted from one end of me to the other as I tried to move about. One lad, probably around eight or nine years of age, was light olive in complexion, probably of white race, grey eyes, wavy brown to black hair, wide-eyed, and cute as shit! The second boy was probably the same age, about the same height or weight, darker in complexion, but not much, maybe mixed race, brown to black hair cut short, grey eyes also, and no less adorable. The third boy, older by a couple of years or possibly three, was definitely African-American, cropped black hair, taller than the other two, black snappy eyes, and a wide grin on his face and just as fucking delectable as the other two! All three were definitely pre-pubescent, but the third lad wasn't far from the beginning of puberty, I thought.

But, the question was, where in hell did they come from? They seemed comfortable speaking either French or English so, perhaps and just perhaps, they were part of some religious enclave and this was their home. They were dressed about the same, in cotton pants and pull-over shirt, and barefoot. I looked about the room seeking more clues to my whereabouts. On the night stand was an oil lamp as well as another on a chest of drawers in one corner. The night stand also had a pitcher and bowl on a shelf beneath the top. There wasn't an electric light bulb to be seen anywhere in the room or an outlet! The only illumination provided was through a glassed in window.

I scanned the room, looked at the three boys, looked down at the floor, and when I did, the oldest, jumped up and said, "Da piss-pot under da bed- maybe fetch I fetch it fo ya?"

"No!" I answered, "I think I can get up and use the bathroom, if you'll just show me the way."

The other two boys giggled and one smirked at the older boy, "You just want to hold his pole again and watch it grow!" The African-American boy just grinned all the larger, waggled his eyebrows, and replied, "Din' see you holdin' back any!"

Perhaps I was not dreaming after all!

The lightest complexioned (the one I assumed was white) boy frowned and said, "I don't think Momma Celeste wants you to get up, besides the outhouse is out back of the house."

Oh my God, no indoor plumbing! This was 1983 – doesn't everyone have indoor plumbing anymore? Evidently not! What a fine kettle of fish I've found myself in! I decided to wait and when the boys left, dig out the pot and do my business.

"Who are you?" I asked the lad.

"Benjamin Chapman," he answered softly, "and I'm nine years old."

"And you two?" I asked the others.

"Henri Doucet," answered boy two, "and I'm nine years old too."

"Antoine Doucet," spoke up the African-American lad, "and I's twelve years old."

"Are you and Henri brothers?"

"Not really" chimed in Benjamin. "Henri and Antoine are kind of brothers, but not really brothers since Henri was born before his mother married Antoine's Daddy when Henri was four and Henri never knew who his real daddy was and..."

"Enough!" I said emphatically. "I think I get the picture. Now can someone tell me where I am, please?"

"Momma Celeste and Daddy Hannibal's house," piped up Henri. "Momma Celeste is a healer lady and she had you brought in here and put to bed so she could take care of you."

Oh great, I thought, some backwoods charlatan is going to wave feathers over me, blow smoke in my face, and whisper incantations trying to drive out the evil spirits and heal me!

"And," I asked already suspicious of the answer, "who undressed me?"

"We did," answered Benjamin and giggled giving the other three a knowing wink!

"You did a fine job," I responded, "and I appreciated it."

It was a hint; if they were players they'd take up on it, but I wasn't certain I wanted to take a chance- you know, "a patriot afloat in a sea of pirates" type of situation; if you know what I mean! For all I knew, this enclave might be full of those types of people who'd strip me naked, nail my nuts to a stump, and shove me over backwards; or be the real right-wing religious types who might decide to "save my soul" by burning me to death or something worse (I couldn't think of anything worse, but there must be unless it would be to condemned to a life among women who had no use for the male appendage)!

Antoine interrupted, bringing us back to the qualifications of "Momma Celeste" as a "healer woman."

"She be a good healer, but don' let her dose you wit' dat rhubarb syrup spring tonic of hers. It do make you shit sothin' terrible. She done give Henri and Benjie a spoonful each, they arseholes so sore dey not let me touch'em for a week!"

"Antoine," both boys shouted, "shut your face!"

If this was a religious enclave, I was willing to bet there was at least three budding or active sinners in their midst!

Antoine, head down, muttered his apology to the other two. I quickly changed the subject, not wanting to embarrass anyone any further and asked, "May I ask where I am, please?"

"Momma Celeste's sick room," piped up Benjie.

"And where is `Momma Celeste's sick room' located, exactly?"

"You're on the farm of Mr. Edmond Chapman, owner of the property and father to Benjie," answered a cultured feminine voice from the bedroom doorway.

"He be awake now, Momma Celeste," spouted Antoine quickly.

"Antoine," she said softly while smiling at the lad, "Please don't talk like a field hand. How do you expect to become an educated and cultured gentleman of color if you speak like that? What might people think- Momma Celeste raised a bunch of ruffians and wharf boys? We wouldn't want that would we?"

"No mam," acknowledged Antoine and the other two just nodded their heads in agreement.

"I'm Celeste Doucet," she said by way of introduction, quickly crossing the room to my bedside. Laying a hand on my forehead, commented, "You're not feverish and that's a good sign."

Looking at the three boys, she grinned and said, "I see you've already met my three helpers."

"Yes Mam," I responded while she gripped my wrist lightly while taking my pulse.

While she did so, I scrutinized her carefully; actually looking her over from head to toe to see if there was any evidence of either religious fanaticism or ultra-conservative political or cultural leanings intended on doing me harm, not that any of that is evident from the outside appearance, but what the hey- doesn't pay to take chances! A straight friend of mine said, when he went into the service, they were shown a film warning them to not "go out with this girl." He said he did and had a wonderful time. I guess looks can be deceiving.

Madame Doucet was an attractive very light complexioned African-American probably ten to fifteen years older than me, or perhaps more and, if it weren't for my other proclivity, I might've considered giving her a toss in the hay, but my first preference was not of the female gender of the species. She carried herself with grace and ease, but generated an air of self-confidence and assurance to others. The clothing she wore intrigued me however. Her dress was long, made of cotton with the front covered from bodice to just above the ankles with a long white apron. The costume was very reminiscent of clothing reminiscent of late nineteenth century garb women wore around the time of the Civil War and shortly thereafter, if my recollection of history and the old photos in history books served me correctly.

To say I was confused and somewhat distraught, even frightened a bit if the truth be known, beginning to think I really was dead or experiencing some sort of fantasy dream. Frankly, I was becoming worried about my own sanity. Just what the hell did happen to me as the storm hit and I approached the cave?

"Your name, please?" came the softly spoken but clearly commanding question.

"Thomas Jeansonne," I responded, using the French pronunciation.

"From or would you rather not say?"

I just smiled and answered her question with one of my own; "How long have I been here?"

"Since yesterday when the boys brought you home in their donkey cart."

My eyes widened and a shudder rippled through my body, realizing I'd not been dreaming about hearing a donkey or burro bray. I quickly glanced around the room again, trying to either confirm or deny my suspicions. My furtive glances were mistaken viewed as a concern for the safety of my belongings.

"Not to worry, M'sieu Jeansonne," Madame Doucet said reassuringly, "Your clothes and travel grip on in the armoire in the corner and nothing has been disturbed."

The three lads hadn't said a word during all of this exchange, but Benjie and Henri were giving me close scrutiny and absorbing everything I said. Antoine, on the other hand, looked like the only thing he was really concerned with was getting his hands active under my bedding again; not that I'd object, but with his step-mother standing nearby? I think not!

Turning to the boys, Madame said, "Boys, you have chores to do so you'd best get at it. Mr. Chapman will be home in the morning and he likes things done up when he arrives. Besides, you three have school on the morrow as well. I think it's time we let Mr. Jeansonne get his rest." Looking at me, she remarked, "I think you prefer we use the English rather than the French when addressing you, but you seem to speak French fairly well, but with a strange accent."

Madame left the room for just a moment and returned with a decanter containing a liquid, part of which she poured in a water glass. "This is a decoction of willow bark. It will ease some of your aches and pain. Please drink it all."

I did as instructed, forcing the slightly bitter brew down my throat. It tasted almost like dissolved aspirin, sparking the recollection that modern aspirin was originally obtained from willow, I thought. Clearing my throat several times to try to rid the taste, I handed back the water glass and asked,

"What happened?"

She thought a moment before saying, "The boys seem to think you must have been struck by lightning when that terrible storm roared through here yesterday morning. After it cleared, they decided to take the burro and cart to Rock Creek to fish and maybe swim, since it was so warm, and said they found you inside the small cave near the big rocks."

After hearing the boys chatter earlier, I was willing to bet they were going to the cave to get their poles wet; not fishing poles, but those stiff little rods they carried between their legs.

"They brought you home and I had Jacque and Gabriel, Antoine's older brothers, carry you into my sick room."

"Just exactly where is `here,' Madame?" I inquired further.

"Chapman Corners," she replied, "about half-way between Keokuk and Farmington, Iowa, just north of the Missouri border, but enough talking, you need your rest. I'm certain Mr. Chapman will have plenty of questions for you when he arrives home," and left the room.

I hesitated, waiting until she departed, rose (naked came I), walked over to the armoire, opened it, found my clothing and my duffle, and quickly assessed the contents of my jeans. I removed the billfold containing my driver's license and other identifying information, change in my pants pockets, and, after a few moments thought, the switchblade knife I'd carried for many years. That particular item I slipped under my pillow and the other articles, along with my clothing, went into the duffle bag. A quick inventory of the duffle determined nothing had been taken out, relieving my mind greatly. I hesitated putting my jacket in the duffle, checked the pocket for the geode I'd carried into the cave and noted it was not glowing as it did before, and with a shrug, stuffed the jacket and geode in the duffle as well. I returned to the bed, covered up, stretched out, and reached under the pillow making certain the knife was readily available if I needed it. I lay there for just a few minutes, decided I really was tired, and fell sound asleep.

To be continued.

***

Thank you for reading "The Incredible Journey of Thomas Johnson" – Chapter Three

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