“Let me go! I’m just a kid!” I yelled.
“What are you doing here? Who are you with?” asked the lead Indian. He was taller than the others and probably in his late twenties. His white eyes appeared to float in the darkness that was his painted face.
“My name is Zammie. I’m just looking for my cousin.”
“This village is abandoned. It’s a cursed place. No one should be here.”
“Cursed? What do you mean?”
“Put him with the other.” The Indian who had tied my wrists pushed me along towards the edge of the village where another Indian was being held with his hands tied behind his back. The village had been built along a series of small grassy hills with a small river running along one side of it. The sandy shoreline of what looked like the ocean was less than a quarter mile away explaining why I could hear the breaking of waves.
The Indians tied a leather leash around my neck and began pulling me along like a dog. The other captured Indian was pulled with a leash as well. We left the village and began walking further inland towards a thick forest of green pine trees.
“Where are they taking us?” I asked the other captive. He ignored me.
“What’s your name?” I asked him. He still ignored me. “My name is Zammie.” The man was thin and athletic-looking like the other Indians, but he looked a little older than the leader who captured me. It was obvious these guys were in good shape because they were lean and muscular and they showed no signs of being tired even after we had been walking for several hours. After climbing more hills and fording a couple shallow rivers I was beginning to feel the strain.
“When do you think we’ll stop to rest?” I asked him. He still ignored me. “Do you even understand what I’m saying?” On my previous time trips I had learned that although it sounded to me as if I was speaking English, the words I spoke were understood by whomever I was addressing. I’m sure this Indian could understand me. “Are you mute? Can you not talk? We’ve been walking for hours and you haven’t said one word to me.”
The Indians that were pulling us along looked back at us, murmured something to each other and began laughing. I noticed the captive looking at me and trying to hold back a grin as well.
“They have a bet on how long you will last,” said the other captive.
“Finally! You speak,” I said. “What do you mean, ‘how long I will last’?”
“The one holding your leash thinks you will fall before we make camp. The other bets you won’t.”
“What? Why do you think I’ll fall?” I asked the Indian holding onto me.
“Because you are frail,” said the other captive. “You may dress like a Patuxet but you are not one. And your hair is too short. Not like the hair of someone your age should be.”
--from Time Trip #3:
Witness to the First Thanksgiving
TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 4
KILLING FOR COUNTRY
TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 2
A RIDE ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD
TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 3
WITNESS TO THE FIRST THANKSGIVING
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