Dorian tried to keep himself hidden, standing deep along the sideline among a group of people in the back, away from most of the action. It made him appear a shy person, as indeed he was. In his own time though, he would have been a little more sociable. His eyes swept across the room at the faces, the joy and laughter of people having a good time. He was amazed by them; here was a group of people who had almost nothing, and were experiencing the worst of times, not knowing if they would have something to eat in the coming months or what terrible misfortune would strike next, yet they still have it within them to enjoy the fine things in life.
Amber danced with a local boy, but her eye was frequently on Dorian, glancing at him often to see if he was watching her. The band picked up the pace with the fiddles, and, all around, the tapping of boot-heels unsettled a little more dust. Billie left her dance partner and worked her way amidst the crowd toward Dorian.
“Aren’t you goin’ to ask me to dance?” she asked Dorian, pouting.
Dorian looked again at the people dancing and having a good time.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” he said, shaking his head, his hands fidgeting.
“That doesn’t matter, silly. You’re here and that’s that. Come with me.” She started to take Dorian’s hand but was yanked away to the dance floor by another young man. Dorian retreated outside into the cool night air.
Several men sat around a small fire drinking and laughing out loud. Money exchanged hands as Clyde passed pint-size mason jars containing moonshine whiskey to another man. Although not a large moonshine operation, his product was known locally for its quality. He used a copper radiator as a still. The old radiator was sunk in a cold creek, fed by clear springs to distill alcohol vapors, heated over a wood fire into a large copper vat. Clyde did not take the time to age the alcohol for five or ten years in charred oak barrels so as to enhance the favor. Instead, he used his own sour-mash method: adding a batch of fermented mash from a previous batch, like making sourdough bread. He did not consider himself a bootlegger as such but as providing a service folks nearby could not get elsewhere.
Clyde leaned back on a wooden box containing several fruit jars of his home-made brew. He noticed Dorian standing near the doorway, staring silently into the fire, spellbound by the flames.
“Hey, boy. Take a load off your mind,” Clyde called. “Come ‘ere and have a drink.”
“What is it?” Dorian asked, as he walked over to Clyde and sat down beside him.
“Don’t be worrin’ ’bout them revenue men. Hell, I sell it to them, too,” Clyde said, offering Dorian a jar and pulling a Bull Durham tobacco sack from the watch pocket of his bib overalls.
Dorian took the jar, and removed the lid. He took a sniff from the open container and looked up at Clyde with a grin, “Is this what’s referred to in history as ‘white lightning’?” Dorian bit his lip and winced over that slip of the tongue.
Clyde smiled and said with pride, “Corn liquor, my boy. My own homebrew. I make it down by the creek. Spring water, and a little flavorin’ from the peach tree.”
Dorian put the liquid to his lips. It burned, and his eyes watered instantly as he took a swig from the jar. His mouth opened wide as he exhaled a long breath to cool the burning sensation on his lips and mouth.
“Oh, my!” he said. “Almost pure ethyl alcohol.”
Clyde and the other men around the fire had a good laugh.
Clyde held up his cup as if to make a toast, “Yep, pure history. The county judge calls it, ‘illicit untaxed whiskey.’ This ’ere home brew can sneak up on ya fast, hit ya like white lightnin’.”
Dorian forced a smile, but suddenly turned away from the glare of the fire on his face. He didn’t want the others to see the worry on his face. He stared across the open meadow to the wood line, the flickering light, the dance of shadows. Amongst all the noise and laughter, a sudden fear crawled over him; anxiety and terror started to take a grip on him. He stood quickly, walking away a few paces to consider matters.
This is taking too long, he thought. No progress had been made in obtaining a ruby, and there was not as yet any real hope in finding one. It was his goal during his time-travels to gather from the collective wisdom of the generations, to gain insights into what was right or lasting, and learn how to handle every situation. He worried about how he was violating the Principal Mandate—just observe and don’t get involved. That was the fundamental point that the planners of this mission emphasized; follow that and you cannot get into trouble. But what should one do in this situation? The possibility of a major break down of a time-portation device’s ruby component had been overlooked by the scientists at the Quantum Institute.
Dorian’s main concern was the causality effect—whether an effect can occur before it is caused. The classic example is the Grandfather Paradox; what would happen if a time-traveler went into the past and was responsible for his Grandfather’s death, before his ancestor had had children? Other paradoxes could manifest, as well. Yet what else could he do? Under these circumstances, avoiding contact with people was not possible. He clung to the hope that whatever change he was making to the fabric of time was negligible.
Dorian looked at the men gathered around the fire in all their gayety and joy. To them, he was a stranger, but it did not matter to them at all. It seemed, at times, the easiest way would be just to tell them he had traveled here from two thousand years in the future and was in desperate need of a ruby. He could always tell the entire story at some later time, in the hope that it would not be too far off. In the meantime, he thought, he would try and make the most of the opportunity.
The next morning, Dorian made an effort to get up at least in time for breakfast. His daily routine began at six o’clock every morning. Each day started out just like the day before, and tomorrow would end the same way as yesterday. First there was milking, then tending to the animals, fixing anything that needed fixing, plowing and planting the fields, then milking again in the evening. Most people in that era and region milked their own cows or depended upon farmer-peddlers to supply them with raw milk, none of which was pasteurized.
At times Dorian and Billie worked side by side. Thinking she could do with some cultural improvement, he made an effort to supplement her poor education. During his conversations with her he was continually correcting her grammar and pronunciation of words, something that irritated her at first, but gradually over time she accepted it with a smile. She was taking delight in having more mannered speech, asking him over and over whether she sounded like a “fine lady” yet.
Andy’s job was mostly to feed the chickens and gather eggs. He also fed and watered the dogs. His handicap prevented him from doing most of the more laborious tasks. Sonny had done most of the hard work that involved heavy lifting and other strenuous tasks, but now, with the injury to his hand and arm that would change, at least during the course of the next few days.
That same morning, Andy was on the front porch making butter in a churn. Normally it took half an hour of cranking the churn to make butter out of cream, but with Andy it took a little longer. He had been out earlier that morning looking for morels and any other edible mushrooms he could find. Amber was in the living room mending some of the younger children’s clothes with a foot pedal-powered sewing machine. Ma was washing a large crock and other dishes at the sink. Billie was also in the kitchen, giving haircuts to the younger boys with a pair of hand clippers and scissors. She had them draped with a linen cloth and seated in a highchair. The boys were uncooperative and impatient during the session. Often they were brought to tears, complaining that the clippers pulled their hair and the sharp bristles of their cut hair stung the back of their necks. It was that sort of prickly irritation that needed to be scratched.
“You found out anymore ’bout that man?” Ma asked.
“What man?”
“You know who I’m talkin’ ’bout.”
“Oh,