THE CONDEMNED
Book 1 – Rowen
*Note: For purposes of this blog, the content here will be kept to PG standards. However, upon publication, the full novel will include more adult content.
Chapter 3
Jailed
Rowen was
aware of being carried. Two people had him by the arms, one on either side of
him, and they were dragging him backwards somewhere. He could feel his heels
dragging the ground. His head lolled chin down on his chest, enabling him to
take a peek between his lashes to see where they were going, but he didn’t dare
open them all the way for fear there might be a third person trailing behind.
His
intuition proved correct when he heard someone near his feet speak out.
“Do we know
where he’s from? I don’t recall ever seeing someone dressed the way he’s
dressed.”
“Which is
why we must assume the worst until proven otherwise,” the man on his right
mentioned.
“If he’s an
enemy, why isn’t he armed?” the man to his left inquired. The guy sounded
younger. Hence, inexperienced.
“I say he’s
an escaped prisoner,” the man following proclaimed.
Rowen
whimsically gave the guy credit for that assessment before drifting off again.
It was when
he was laid flat on the ground that he reawakened. This time, he opened his
eyes to find a canopy of leaves overhead. Although he could no longer smell the
sea, he thought he faintly heard waves crashing in the distance.
“He’s
awake,” a voice declared. Something nudged his right shoulder. Turning his
head, Rowen stared up into a roughhewn face burnt tan and leathery from years
in the sun, despite the wide-brimmed hat the man wore. Thankfully, the brim
also blocked the sun from blinding him.
Rowen
started to lift a hand when he realized his wrists were tied with a thick rope.
Although he didn’t check, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find his ankles
similarly bound.
“Wa-ter.”
It was agony to speak, but the man standing over him heard and understood.
“Faith, bring
this man some water.” The guy peered back down at him. “Guess we’ll have to
wait a bit longer to find out who you are and what you’re doing here.”
Judging by
the tone, Rowen couldn’t tell if the man was making a jest, but for the moment
he decided it would be safer if he took everything as potentially
life-threatening. He was already grateful that these people hadn’t killed him
on sight.
A tin cup
was handed to the man, but he waved it off, gesturing to Rowen. A figure knelt
down on his other side. Lifting his head with one hand, a woman held the cup to
his lips. He tried to gulp the contents but she admonished him.
“Drink
slowly, or else your body will reject it.”
Rowen
forced himself to sip the cool water despite the raging need to swig it down.
She only allowed him half the cup when she withdrew it and rested his head back
on the ground. That was the signal for the man to get down on one knee to peer
closer at him.
“Can you
speak now?”
He cleared
his throat. “I can…try.” His voice sounded stronger, but not by much.
“Who are
you? What is your name?”
Rowen
swallowed again. “My name’s Rowen Taylor.”
“Where are
you from?”
Rowen eyed
the man’s attire. He recognized the style, or hoped he did, although he’d only
seen that type of clothing in history books.
“Corinth
City.”
The man
frowned. “Corinth City? I’m not aware of the place. Is it far from here?”
“Yeah. Very
far.” Maybe not in distance, but when it came to time, Rowen hadn’t lied. He
knew he had to come up with a plausible story soon to explain his being here.
There was no way he could tell the man the whole truth.
“What are
you doing here?”
“I’m lost.
I was looking for shelter. Food. Water.”
A second,
younger man came up behind the first. “Did you ask him if there was anyone else
with him?” Rowen recognized the voice as the one who’d held his left arm.
The first
man eyed Rowen. “You heard him. Is there anyone else with you?”
“No. I’m…”
He swallowed hard. “Alone.”
The man
continued to study him. Rowen wondered if he was trying to figure out if Rowen
was a potential threat. He took the lull to ask the stranger, “What is your
name, sir?”
“I am
Obediah Goodall.” He threw a finger at the young man beside him. “This is my
son, Abraham. You have already met my wife, Faith.”
“Thank you
for saving me.”
“How long
have you been wandering around out there?” Goodall questioned.
Closing his
eyes, Rowen shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve lost track of time.” He took a
deep breath. “May I please have some more water?” When he opened his eyes, he
noticed Goodall giving his silent approval to his wife. Lifting his head a
second time, she let him have the rest of what was in the cup. As she set his
head back down, he thanked her. She gave him a quick smile then got to her feet
and left.
“When was
the last time you ate, Mr. Taylor?” Goodall continued.
“Days.” It
was as honest an answer as he could muster. His head was beginning to swim. The
water had helped, but now that he’d been given that meager amount, it had
reawakened his body to more of its needs.
“Obediah.”
Someone
behind Rowen was approaching them. He was unable to see who it was, but he
could hear their conversation.
“What have
you learned?” It was a man, and he spoke with authority.
“His name
is Rowen Taylor. He’s from a place called Corinth City. He’s been traveling for
several days, and he’s alone and unarmed.”
“And you
believe him?”
“So far, I feel
I have no reason not to.”
Rowen
didn’t know why Goodall was defending him, but apparently the man’s word carried
weight.
“We’re taking
him to the jail house,” the son, Abraham, added.
The strange
man, whom Rowen mentally labeled as an alderman or someone of equal status,
apparently agreed with that decision. “Good. Have someone fetch the doctor to
check him out. We can’t take the chance of him carrying a disease that could make
us all sick.”
There
wasn’t a verbal answer, but Rowen knew there was agreement.
The other
man left, and Goodall returned.
“Help me
take him to the jail,” he ordered his son, and the two men grabbed Rowen under
the arms again to drag him the rest of the way. This time he was able to get a
look at his feet. As he’d suspected, they were bound at the ankles.
Since they
knew he was awake, Rowen took in his surroundings. At the sight of the simple
wood-frame buildings, none of which were over a story tall, and especially the
sod houses that lined the muddy road. A few people watched from their doorways
or along the lane as he was half-carried to their destination. Rowen also noted
there were no automobiles. Just wagons and the occasional horse. This place was
barely a township, but he knew in a few hundred years it would prosper and grow
to become a major metropolitan center.
The jail
turned out to be a small wooden building. Inside was a table, a chair, a few
wanted posters, and a single cell with a pallet on the floor. Rowen was dumped
on the pallet but the ropes binding him remained intact.
Goodall was
closing the cell door when a tall, lanky man with a handlebar mustache strode
into the building. A silver medallion glittered on his vest.
“Obediah? I
understand I have a guest?”
“Abraham
found him wandering around by the seashore.”
“At first,
I thought he was under the influence of drink,” Abraham spoke up. “When he
keeled over before I could find out who he was, I ran to fetch my pa.”
The lawman
gave a nod as he glanced at Rowen. “What have you found out, if anything?”
“He calls
himself Rowen Taylor,” Goodall informed him. “He says he’s from a place I’ve
never heard of. A place called Corinth City. Are you familiar with the name?”
The
lawman’s face screwed up in thought. “Can’t say that I am, but that doesn’t
mean it doesn’t exist.”
“I asked
Alderman Latham to fetch Doc to check him over,” Goodall mentioned. “Make sure
he doesn’t have any kind of disease that could endanger us.”
“Good call.
Thanks. Anything else you want to add before I question the prisoner myself?
Was he carrying any weapons?”
“No. None
that we could find. Just this.”
Rowen
stared in surprise when Goodall produced his cell phone from his pants pocket.
He’d forgotten he had it on him.
Fat lot
it’ll do me now.
The
lawman shook it, which brought up the sign-in screen, but not knowing what the
numbered buttons were for, the man made a rude noise and held up the phone for
Rowen to see.
“What is
this? Some kind of weapon?”
Rowen
opened his mouth, hoping to come up with a plausible explanation, when it hit
him.
Play
dumb.
“I
found it on the beach. I don’t know what it is, but I figured someone might be
willing to trade for it in exchange for something to eat.”
The lawman
grunted as he shook it again. Giving up for the moment, he tossed it onto the
desk with a clatter. “If that’s all he had on him, he doesn’t have possession
of it now.”
The door
behind him opened, and a young woman came inside. Facing the two men, she glanced
from one to the other, settling on the lawman. “Sheriff Melfry? You sent for
me?”
Goodall
gestured toward Rowen. “We found this man on the seashore, passed out. He’s
already been relieved of anything we feel might be a weapon, but we need for
him to be checked to make sure he’s not carrying any diseases that might infect
us.”
The woman
nodded and approached the cell. Rowen watched as she came inside and set a
small wooden box she’d been carrying on the floor beside his pallet. Getting
down on her knees, she bent over him and placed a cool hand on the side of his
neck.
“Are you
the doctor?” Rowan croaked, unable to tear his eyes away. She was young. Not
exactly beautiful, but her face was arresting, especially her large blue eyes.
“I’m the
closest thing this town has to one,” she replied and sat back on her heels. “You
don’t seem to have a fever. What do I call you?”
“My name’s
Rowen Taylor.”
“Hello, Mr.
Taylor. My name’s Luka Postill. Welcome to Callistown. Now tell me, how do you
feel? Do you hurt anywhere?”
Rowen
remained staring at her, but now his brain was sending up fireworks as he
vaguely recalled his history lessons when he’d been a kid in school.
Callistown
was the name of Corinth City before it was taken over by The Assembly and
renamed.
“Mrs. Post—
Excuse me, Dr. Postill?”
She smiled
down at him as she removed her bonnet and set it aside. “Miss Postill will do.
I have neither a marriage certificate nor a medical license.”
“Miss
Postill, what year is this?”
The
pleasant expression on her face went from surprise, to curiosity, to concern. “You
want to know what year this is?” she repeated. Behind her, the sheriff and
Goodall wore identical expressions.
“Yes.
Please.”
“It’s the
year of our Lord, eighteen eighty-four. You didn’t know that?”
1884. He’d
gone back more than three hundred years.
And he was condemned to this time
period for the rest of his life.
TO BE CONTINUED
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