Caught In The River - Ronald Lee (book reader for pc TXT) 📗

asked.
“Seventeen,” Mary said. “Where am I?”
The figure brandished an old riding whip and held it under Mary’s chin.
“I’ll ask the questions Ms. Woodle,” He said. He ran the leather end of the whip over Mary’s muddied blouse. “What type of clothes are these?” He asked.
Mary explained her attire.
“I’m just wearing blue jeans, blouse and tennis shoes.”
“I see,” The general said.
“You said your brother disappeared a few months ago?” He asked.
“Yes,” Mary said before she realized that she had not.
“Very good,” the General said. “I imagine your arms are hurting you quite a bit Mary.”
“Yes,” Mary admitted. General Towen walked behind Mary, and grabbed her shoulders with strong boney hands. She gasped in pain and tried to look away as he turned her face towards his. His breath stank and his teeth clicked softly as his hissed:
“Make no mistake about it Ms. Woodle; you are a captive of the British Army. I am the General of that Army. Everything I tell you to do you will do understood?” Mary nodded. “Every question I ask you will answer honestly and quickly, yes? Your job from this point on is to convince me you are telling me the truth,” As if to drive home the point, he pushed down on Mary’s aching shoulders until she gasped again. “Now,” He said releasing her and going back to the desk. “Tell me everything you know about the Swamp Fox.” He returned to the front of his desk, crossed his legs and waited. Mary watched him patting the riding whip in his hand.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Mary said fearfully. The General took his whip and brought it down across Mary’s legs. “Don’t play games with me Ms. Woodle!” He screamed. Mary felt her thighs throbbing in pain. “I don’t know any Swamp Fox. . .” She began to cry.
“Liar,” Charles screamed again. The whip came across Mary’s legs once more and she bounced in the chair in pain.
“Please,” she begged. “All I know is he fought in the Revolutionary war.”
The General raised his whip as if to strike her again then seemed to change his mind. Mary cried as he patted her head.
“Very good,” He said as Mary cried. “What else?”
Mary tried to remember her history lessons. “I know he was a hero, who lived in Marion County.” She tried to come up with information that would be more useful. The General acted as if he wasn’t impressed.
“Look Mister that was hundreds of years ago!” She pleaded as he brought the whip down on her legs again. Mary screamed in pain. “Please stop!” She begged. “I’ll do anything.”
The General was unconcerned by her suffering.
“I’ve overseen the interrogation of thousands of prisoners,” he bragged. “I do not need you to do anything.” The general knelt in front of Mary and forced her to look at him. “By the time I am through with you I will know all you know.” Mary screamed as he ordered his soldiers in. They roughly yanked her out of her seat, dragged her to the back wall. They next tied her to metal rings in the wall of the cabin and ripped off the back of her blouse. One soldier came in with a single twelve-foot leather strap and began to whip the young girl relentlessly. After several lashes, the General ordered his men out and whispered in Mary’s ear:
“It’s awful isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she whimpered.
“Your arms ache and your back burns.” He told her.
“Yes sir,” she agreed crying.
“You can feel the splinters digging into your cheek, and the blood start to seep out the wounds on your back?” He said. He pressed Mary’s face into the wall of the cabin.
“Why are you doing this?” Mary groaned, and the General released her.
“Because you remind me of someone I hated long ago,” the General said softly and left Mary hanging on the wall. She closed her eyes and cried not knowing when the next torturous event would begin. The last things Mary heard was the thud of the General’s boots walking across the cabin floor, the pat of the riding whip in his hands and the slam of the cabin door as she sank into unconsciousness.
If Robert Woodle could see what would happen to his daughter over the next few months in the parallel universe he would be beside himself with rage. His daughter’s experience in the stockades, being forced to wear a bar lap pig feed sack, and work in the fort’s garden was unknown to him as he searched the River for her. He never saw the beatings, or the humiliation Mary went through at the hands of the British soldiers. Fran Woodle could not look past her own grief to see her child forced to march day after day, interrogated, and given just enough food to keep her alive. They had no idea the realm their children were in existed. They had no concept of how much time passed between their experiences and that of their children.
The Woodle’s could not imagine their son Jack learning how to hunt with bow and arrow and use a spear. The heart broken couple never saw his conversations with Brian about Newton’s laws and Botany, or his talks with Soho about respect for nature and lessons on how to make his own clothes. They never saw his growing fondness of Cappy, as they would go through the swamp in search of food.
In like manner, Jack never saw the many nights his father sat alone in the house with a beer in his hand staring into the darkness. He never saw his mother’s affair, nor his sister living a tortured existence. However, he did not forget them either.
“What if we recreated the conditions that activated the gateway here?” He asked as Brian finished writing a mathematical equation on the cave wall. Brian looked at his student, put the piece of charcoal he was writing on the wall with down, and sat beside him on the wooden bench they had made.
“Look son,” Brian started putting an arm on Jack’s shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”
Jack stood up. “Let’s get something straight okay. I’m Jack Woodle not Freeman. I appreciate everything you, Soho, and Cappy have done for me. Really I do. I’m Jack Woodle. I live at 2430 Woodberry lane in Marion South Carolina! I’m in the tenth grade. My sister’s name is Mary, my mother’s name is Fran and my dad’s name is Robert!”
“We’ve been over this Jack,” Brian repeated, frustrated at the outburst. “We don’t have a power source. . .”
“You haven’t looked!” Jack screamed. “You’ve got a wife and daughter and a nice home to live in. You just need a son to make your little illusion complete!”
“That’s enough!” Brian warned. “You have no idea what I lost when the river caught me.
“I was a professor at Stanford University. I was writing a book on Botany. I was dating a beautiful nurse at the local hospital! Do you think I choose to be here? You think I want to wear deerskin clothes that itch all the time, eat out of wooden bowls and use the bathroom in the woods?”
By the time he finished his statement, Brian was nose to nose with Jack. The two glared at each other as Cappy and Soho came into the cave.
“What’s wrong?” Cappy asked as she put down her bowl of blackberries.
“Nothing,” Jack mumbled and walked past her and Soho. Cappy tried to stop Jack by grabbing his hand as Soho went to calm her husband.
“No, tell her the truth.” Brian ordered. “The new addition to our family wants to leave. He wants to go somewhere he can’t go and he’s pouting about it!”
“Brian stop,” Soho pleaded.
“I’m outta here,” Jack said. He grabbed his bow and arrows, spear and headed towards the front door.
“Jack wait,” Brian started. “I’m sorry.”
Jack paused and looked at the three standing in the middle of the cave. He could feel their hurt and wanting to reach out to him.
“I’m sorry too,” He started. “I just have another family on the other side of the river, and I’m not ready to let them go.” He tried to think of something else to say but just walked up the pathway to the swamp.
Cappy started to go after him but Brian caught her arm.
“No honey,” he said softly hugging her and Soho. “He’s got to work this through on his own. He’ll be back in a little while.”


CHAPTER SIX
Robert Woodle sat in the camper of Charles Blackfoot watching the Shaman mix and crush herbs in a clay bowl. Charles chanted some Pee Dee Indian song to the sound of Native American flutes playing from a CD player. Robert looked through drunken eyes at the dream catcher on the wall over the bed, the picture of the Indian on his horse at sun set that hung over the TV and the eagle feathers on the air conditioner.
“What are you doing?” he asked. He remembered going into the bar the night before and getting in a fight. The bouncer threw him out of the establishment, and he later wrecked his truck. He remembered walking over the Pee Dee River Bridge and cursing the river throwing his last beer can in it. The last thing he remembered was everything spinning right before he collapsed in a ditch.
“Hang over cure,” Charles said with a smile as he went to the camper’s small stove and poured hot water in the bowl from a whistling kettle.
Robert’s head pounded as he took the bowl and drank. He gagged. “It’s awful,” He complained.
“Drink it, or you’ll hate the next forty-eight hours.” The shaman warned. Robert looked at the black steaming concoction and grimaced. He felt nausea roll over him and quickly downed the rest of the potion. Robert sat back in the recliner and closed his eyes. Evil eyes with mincing smiles came at him from the darkness.
“Can you see the spirits?” Charles asked.
“Yeah,” Robert said fearfully. “What do I do?”
“Open your eyes man,” Charles joked. “Boy, you’re drunker than I thought.”
Robert opened his eyes and started to cuss out the shaman who now sat on a love seat beside him. He realized he felt a lot better so instead said, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Charles answered. “When I saw the guy you picked a fight with I knew you were going to need a lot of help.”
Robert put a hand against his jaw and remembered the punches he received.
“No kidding. I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m surprised you could walk Mister Woodle,” Charles