Below is another short story I wrote for a competition. The elements required for this competition were a stoner, going home, and bartering. I’ve done some light editing, but it is presented here almost as entered. Once again, lack of conflict was my downfall. Some also disliked my misuse of thee/thou/thine and old English. I can’t seem to win in that regard – I seem to go overboard or get it wrong. Oh well, I’ll keep plugging along. (For the record, I did look up thee/thou usage, but apparently I didn’t understand it well enough. Which considering my poor grammar skills, is not surprising.
Still, this was fun to write, it’s lighthearted, and I hope you enjoy it.
After work on Friday, Brendon, and his buddies Jeff and Kevin piled into Kevin’s derelict Land Cruiser, Rusty–named for the original burnt orange color and its condition. They stopped at a convenience store on the way to their favorite campground. Not driving, and having had a rough week, Brendon had already partaken of their favorite strain and had reached the point of blissfulness. He stuffed his pockets with jerky, string cheese, pretzels, a Yoo-hoo, Buffalo Wing potato chips, and a hard-boiled egg–there was something about the rubber consistency of the prepackaged eggs that he really enjoyed when he was high. Jeff and Kevin, both sober, purchased a case of beer, charcoal for the grill, ice for the cooler, and paid for everything Brendon squirreled away in his pockets; their shoplifting days were far behind them.
It was already dark when they reached the campground, a rustic place at the edge of state game lands with composting toilets, a water pump, and a few dozen sites. They parked in their favorite site, the last one at the end of the second lane. It was always available. The gurgling stream was audible and soothing, the toilet and water source were easily walkable, and the site was private, thanks to the most enormous oak any of them had ever seen.
Named The Ancient One, by the locals, the tree stood at the edge of their site. Its roots left the surrounding camp sites lumpy and its canopy created a dense shade that verged on gloomy and was unusually cool all season long. When the wind rustled its leaves, some heard voices, some heard animal growls, and some heard the names of their deceased loved ones. The ground beneath The Ancient One’s limbs remained bone dry and free of leaf litter year-round; neither rain nor snow penetrates its crown and fallen leaves scattered to the outer perimeter on imperceptible breezes. Embedded in the trunk was an old unreadable stone, bark growing around the edges, slowly encasing it. People said the place was haunted, sacred, or cursed–depending on the speaker’s persuasion.
Brendon and his buddies didn’t believe any of it, instead taking advantage of the campsite’s ongoing availability.
After setting up camp, a dinner of grilled hot dogs and spray cheese, and enjoying some of their favorite Indica strain, Kevin made a nest of sleeping bags, coats, and coolers in Rusty’s bed. Brendon, zonked before they even arrived, fell asleep with his back against The Ancient One. Jeff draped a space blanket over Brendon before cocooning himself, like a larva preparing for winter, in his hammock between two smaller trees across the fire from snoring Brendon. The night was clear and calm.
Brendon woke to birds chirping above him. It was sunny, unusually sunny under The Ancient One. As he yawned and stretched, bird poop splatted on the reflective blanket.
“Seriously, dude?” Brendon scowled as he rose and peered into the tree; it was smaller than he remembered. “Huh,” he said, scratching his head.
He glanced at his surroundings, slowly spinning. Rusty and his buddies were nowhere to be found. The usually crowded campground was deserted – the trees were sparse and there weren’t any campers in sight.
I must still be high, he thought, shrugging.
The crinkling as he clumsily folded the space blanket was extraordinarily loud in the quiet setting. He placed a flat, almost rectangular, rock on the lightweight metallic blanket so it wouldn’t blow away and headed towards the toilets’ location.
Though he kept the babbling stream on his left, he was sure he was lost. The trees are all wrong, the big ones are small, and the small ones are big and there’s no toilet shed. Seeing no one around, he relieved himself behind a small tree, then reoriented himself again. The Ancient One was half its size, not nearly the imposing specimen with which he was familiar.
“Halt!” cried a voice with an unusual dialect.
“Halt yourself!” Brendon replied, instantly clapping his hand over his mouth. I’m going to get myself killed yelling at strangers in the woods.
Turning towards the voice, he saw a man wearing leather shoes, white stockings and garters, knee-length trousers, a jacket, and a wide brimmed felt hat, standing beside a stone well. The man was pointing a musket at him.
Yep, I’m still high. “Howdy, Pilgrim!” Brendon giggled. “Dude, that is what you’re supposed to be, right?”
The man lifted his head from the gun, perplexed. “Pray tell whence thee came? Thine attire be most unusual. Ist thou a spirit?”
“A spirit? No way, man. I’m just Brendon.”
“From which village dost thee hail, Master Justbrendon?”
Brendon took a step forward, shaking his head. “Dude! I’m camping, right over there.” He pointed towards the smaller Ancient One. “I’m just looking for some water. Might still be high, though. Better be careful, my costumed dude. That’s not politically correct, you know.”
“Thee speaketh, but thine words be unfamiliar.”
“You know,” Brendon explained as he rummaged through his pockets, “because the colonists stole this land. But I’m not up on my history. Don’t know who lived here first, what tribe or nation, I mean.”
“Ho! Master Smyth,” said another voice. “Hast thee good fortune on thine hunt?” An older man, dressed similarly to the first, stepped out of the trees. Seeing Brendon, he straightened, moving more cautiously. “Best lower thine weapon, Master Smyth, lest ye threaten that spirit,” he added calmly, nodding towards Brendon.
Smyth lowered his weapon as the second man approached. “Aye, Master Edwards, tis wise. He sayeth he’s no spirit.”
Am I being pranked? Brendon thought, lighting a roach with his lighter.
The two men jumped back.
“What magic is this? Ye carry fire in thine pocket? How is that possible?” asked Edwards incredulously.
“What this?” Brendon held out his lighter. “It’s nothing, man. Just a lighter.” He took a long draw, examining the two men as he exhaled and conversing with himself silently. Are these guys legit? Nah, that’s impossible. It would mean time travel’s real. Oh shit! What if they think I’m a witch? Wait, what does the Prime Directive say? No, that’s first contact. This is time travel; no tampering with the past to alter the future and don’t meet myself.”
“Say, what year is it?” Brendon asked the two wide-eyed men.
The two men glanced at each other. “The year of our lord sixteen-eighty-seven,” replied Edwards.
“I see.” Have the witch trials started yet? How far did the paranoia spread?
“What year dost thou believe it be?”
Brendon shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Hell, I don’t believe it. If this isn’t a Kush induced dream, I’m in some deep shit.
He pointed to the well, smacking his lips for emphasis. “I’m just here for a drink, man.”
“Art thou a heathen Master Justbrendon? Thou dost not resemble an Indian.”
“Heathen? Nah, wouldn’t go that far. And of course, I don’t look Native American, dude. My granddaddy was an immigrant.”
The two men looked befuddled.
Brendon dropped the bucket into the well and began cranking the winch, enthralled with the contraption. “I’m thinking I should just take a nap under that tree again, like that dude in the story. What’s his name, VanWinkle, or something?”
“There be VanWinkles in the next village yon. Dost thou knowest them?” said Smyth hopefully.
Brendon shook his head and drank from the wooden bucket. “No way, man. I gotta get home. I can’t stay here.” He glanced around, pondering his options.
“I got it,” Brendon exclaimed.
The two men flinched, unaccustomed to such bizarre outbursts.
“I’ll nap under the tree again. Look, I’ll trade you for your hat,” he said, proffering the three string cheeses, four beef jerkies, and a hard-boiled egg. He had consumed the chips and Yoo-hoo.
“What manner of currency is this?” questioned Edwards, leaning in for a closer look. “Mighty odd wampum,” he said, rubbing his bearded chin.
“Wampum? Oh, man!” Brendon said, taking another toke. “Sure, let’s call it wampum. This is jerky, er, dried meat, cheese, and a hard-boiled egg. It’s all I’ve got.” he patted his pockets again. “Oh, and my lighter, but you know, time travel rules,” he said with a shrug.
“What be these time travel rules?”
Brendon dismissed him with a wave, joint in hand. “Can’t alter the future, so I probably shouldn’t give you the lighter. What do you want for your hat?”
“Pardon?”
“Your hat, man. How much for it?”
“Sorry, Master Justbrendon, mine hat is not to be traded,” Edwards replied sternly.
Brendon sighed. “Fine. What else you got that can prove I was here? I’m telling you, no one’s going to believe me.”
Smyth stepped forward. “My apologies, Master Edwards. Might not I trade mine hat?” He removed his hat, revealing a second-rate patch job. “I dost needest a new one.”
“Do as thou must,” Edwards conceded.
“So, dude, what do you want for it?”
“Thee dried meat, Master Justbrendon.”
“Wise choice, Smyth!” Brendon said, clapping him on the back. He peeled off the wrappers and handed the jerky to Smyth. Too bad I don’t have something better to wrap them in, but I can’t leave plastic. Time travel rules and all.
Smyth handed Brendon his hat, almost remorsefully. Brendon plopped it on his head, crookedly. “How do I look?”
“Odd,” said Edwards. Smyth nodded.
“Cool!”
Brendon pointed to The Ancient One. “I’m off to take a nap. I think that’s how this works. Nice to meet you pilgrim dudes, but I gotta get home.” He marched away. animatedly reaching up every few steps to adjust his hat. The two pilgrims followed him, curious.
When Brendon reached The Ancient One, he removed the rock weighing down the blanket and shook it out. The futuristic crinkling startled Edwards and Jones. Laughing, Brendon glanced at the rock. It was roughly the same shape and size as the one lodged in The Ancient One’s trunk from his time.
“Do either of you have a knife?” Brendon asked.
They glanced at one another; unwilling to give this stranger a weapon.
He held up the rock. “Look man, I just want to carve something on it. Prove I was here.”
Edwards reluctantly handed Brendon his hunting knife.
The rock was soft, like sandstone. Brendon carved his name and date into it, then handed the knife back to the confused men. “Leave this by this tree, please,” he said.
“I’ll hangeth thine plaque on yon tree for thine egg,” offered Smyth.
“Deal!” Brendon unwrapped the egg–again, leaving no plastic behind. Then, after swapping the egg for the stone, Brendon laid down and placed the space blanket over himself.
“Nighty Night, Smyth and Edwards.”
Brendon woke to the sound of birds chirping in the branches above. The crown of The Ancient One was massive, perfectly round, and cool. He bolted upright, ecstatic at being home.
The noise of the blanket crinkling and Brendon’s guffaws woke Jeff and Kevin. Brendon reached up, feeling for the hat. Finding it still there, he leapt up, dancing around their campsite, giddy and giggling.
“What happened?” Jeff said, still groggy.
“Dude! I was like that VanWinkle guy! Freakin’ amaze balls! I fell asleep and woke up in the past. Here’s proof!” he exclaimed, chucking the hat at Jeff.
Jeff and Kevin shared a look as Jeff caught and donned the hat.
“You’re still high,” Kevin groused.
“Dude! I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. But it’s true. Look!” Brendon skipped to the tree and gently brushed the moss and lichen off the rock embedded in the tree trunk.
The letters were worn, but readable. “Brendon was here, July 12, 2023/1687”
“Can’t be!” Jeff said, awestruck.
Brendon grinned knowingly. “This place isn’t haunted. The tree’s a time traveling thing-a-ma-bob. A portal or something. The ghosts are time travelers.”
Kevin scratched his head. “I don’t know…”
“Man, you try it next time,” Brendon suggested.
He did. So did Jeff. And Brendon – again, and again, and again, until they were too old for adventure.
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