A broken twig, John Jones [best large ereader .TXT] 📗

though he'd been down-trodden for years.

In the days after discovering the vortex, he couldn't get it out of his mind, and with the notes he had taken, he tried to find it again. This time driving as close as he could get in his beat-up little Honda civic.

From where he parked, on a lonely desolate road, it was a five mile trek over hills across fields, through mountainous regions, but he found it. There it was, swirling around and he felt no fear as he jumped inside.

He was thrown out again, rolling over and standing up. He stood on an outcrop, surveying the village in the distance, sure no-one there could see him, but everything was the same as it was in the past and he did a quick overview of his surroundings to make sure nobody was around, would not chance upon him, but the nearest person it seemed was down in the village. It was the only place of any activity for miles around.

This must be anywhere from the 12th to the 19th century, he thought. It was a nice sunny day and a few birds circled in the sky, and he wondered that he should not even be seen by animals, as maybe somewhere down the line even they could have some sort of effect.

 

After around two hours he made his way back to the void, and back to his own civilisation.

He stayed for a few days in his present, at his ramblers meetings, and caravan park barbecues, trying to be normal, but still the vortex had invaded his mind, and when he parked up at the same place to walk the five miles, he took from under the passenger side seat a good pair of binoculars, and was soon trekking his way through the hills and into the past.

Sat upon the rock, he surveyed the village below through his binoculars, having made sure nobody was near and saw exactly what he had suspected, and it reinforced his belief that he really was in the past. There was nothing modern anywhere. People milled around and went about their business in what seemed partly to be a farming village. At the far side from his vantage point there were fences where he could see several grazing cows and sheep along with a couple of horses, and several chickens who simply wandered around the village.

After around an hour of just observing, he decided he would go back to the vortex and without fear leapt back into his present, but instead of making his way home, he went down into what was left of the village. The layout was partly visible. There was some masonry left of the wall of the haybarn, some of the interior of a stone cottage where it looked like there had been a fireplace, and now that he looked more closely, bits of what looked to be pottery dotted here and there. A place also that looked like it could have been a workshop hadn't been completely reclaimed.

He decided to go back home, and perhaps do some research. The nearest library was in Achriesgill, but he guessed it may be worth a visit because although he wasn't exactly a technophobe, he didn't have access to the internet. He did have a mobile phone, but all it did was call and text. In terms of modern technology, an ancient device.

One of his friends at the ramblers meeting in Durness did have a new internet phone and he kept up to date, but was reluctant to part with it so Geoffrey could look something up.

He asked him to look up old Scottish villages. His friend was curious, asking why and reluctantly handing over his phone when he had looked it up online, but what it said was more general, talking about Scottish life, about various clans and castles. Nothing nailed down to what he wanted to know. When he started trying to type in his friend interjected by taking the phone back and telling him the talk and slides by one of their members was about to begin, about their journey along part way of what used to be the East-West Silk road trade routes. When the lights went off and the screen came on, Geoffrey could do nothing but fold his arms and watch.

 

The following day he loaded up on petrol and drove to the library.

There was hardly anybody in there and he enquired about using the computers. The kindly woman behind the desk tried to help him set up, and he had to make an account because with the library being far away from where he lived he had no reason to join. The books he read he simply bought, but after a good ten minutes, the woman not really knowing herself what to do, he was finally surfing the web for information on old Scottish villages.

It didn't tell him too much other than what his friend's phone had told him. It was more about Scottish history and details on things which were not what he was searching for. He tried old Scottish maps, and there it was. There was the village. It was rather crudely drawn and was nothing more than a few white squares out in the highlands for 1652, so remote and small it didn't have a name, but that was all. That was the best he could find.

So while Scotland was writing its history, and battlefields rang to the sound of clashing steel, and the monarchy was breaking, the village simply got on with life, out of the way, maybe not even being aware of what else was happening beyond the mountains.

The internet didn't mention anything else and he wondered if he could find anybody that knew their history who might have known about the village, but what could they say? he wondered. Yes, there was a village, and that's about it.

How far could he go? Could he even trust himself not to say anything?

No, not really, envisioning his mind screaming for him not to say anything but his mouth having other ideas.

'I've found a portal into the past'.

No, he decided he knew enough, and was happy with that.

Although at the caravan site, and at ramblers meetings, he did kind of ask rudimentary questions incase anybody had further information. Usually at such clubs or societies, somebody would know a lot about a certain subject and if you asked there would bound to be somebody who would have an answer, but with this he just invited curiosity. Thinking he had just developed a sudden interest in historical villages, as everybody knew him at the ramblers, it seemed curious that he should start asking questions, but he put it down to a new hobby, a new interest, and their curiosity in him left. So he was interested in history, so what? him and millions of others. It turned out not many of them knew much, other than the normal famous history, and the only morsel he got was from Mrs Beresford who always walked her dog along the coast every morning.

'Well I do believe there was a village around here in the past, but that's all I know'.

It really was all she knew. There was a village, now it's gone. That's it.

The next time he ventured out there it was teeming with rain and the wind buffeted and pushed him all the way there, and when he jumped inside, it was rather similar. The sky was grey and it was raining slightly. There wasn't as much activity in the village, but a few people milled around.

He sat for a while having checked his surroundings should anybody happen upon him and simply observed the village through his binoculars.

When he went back to his own civilisation the temptation to tell people had subsided. One person even noted that he'd stopped enquiring about old Scottish villages and Geoffrey had said it was just an interest in local history, nothing more, and nothing more was said and he never asked.

The club had organised a ramble from Portnancon to Sarsgrum and on the walk were two new members. He wondered perhaps if he would risk a ramble, or a walk back in 1652.

He was embroiled in club activity for the next few days developing a walk leadership project and organising a stall for a marketing event down in Glasgow, but he found the time to drive back to the parking space and trek through the fields, valleys and mountains to the hill, and it wasn't long before he was sat on his rock, observing through his binoculars.

The village was as it was. Life moved as normal, and he was convinced he could not be seen nor happened upon. He noticed there were a lot more trees, but where he was, and around the village there was none.

Perhaps, he thought, it might be worth the risk to venture out a little bit further, keeping strict the fact that he must not be seen by anyone or anything.

If he went in the opposite direction to where he faced the village he knew it was sloping fields and hills, down towards a lake.

So slowly, cautiously, he walked a little further out, observing his surroundings like a hawk. It wasn't too dissimilar to his present except there was more foliage, more trees, and more flowers here and there.

After around a mile, he saw the lake, but dared not venture down there. Not until he was feeling brave enough. Perhaps even fish could alter the timeline, if it was not caught because of him.

He scrambled his way back and leapt into the vortex, leapt into his present.

Back at home he was involved in a meeting of caravan park residents because of a proposed purchase of the park by a chain company. They had offered the owners a tempting package, but the vote was a unanimous no, and so for a while the owners hid their faces because they had even considered it.

Everything was going smoothly at the ramblers and he recced the Kearvaig to Achiemore route, including a lot of coastline.

He found time to go back to the vortex and rambled his way there from his parked car, and sat upon his rock surveying the village. Everything was as it was and he ventured out a little further, braving the lake. He knelt and put his hand in the water, and a wave of apprehension came over him then. This was too much. Too dangerous. He headed home.

He led the first ramble on the Kearvaig to Achiemore route but he was disappointed to find only three members turn up. It was the same with most clubs and societies across the world. Memberships fluctuated. Sometimes they'd be queuing to get in, and sometimes there would only be a select few there, and the question of recruitment was a constant. How can we increase membership? was a common question all clubs asked at some point.

He was also disappointed to find he wouldn't be going to Glasgow to help with the stall as he was not needed, so led another long trodden familiar route with five members this time.

 

At the caravan park, it was quite rare to get one of the tourist caravans occupied, but this time a back-packing New Zealand couple stayed for a few days on their way to wherever they felt like moving on to, and such was the curiosity about them they were intergrated by the residents into joining them at barbecues and sometimes into caravans when it rained.

They were a middle-aged couple, Adele and Craig. Adele had recently given up being a fitness instructor and Craig was a construction worker whose contract ended and they had both snapped up the opportunity to go back-packing around the world.

They were a welcome addition to the area as they liked to talk, and when it was time for them to leave the residents were sorry to see them go, so normality returned and Geoffery found himself with time to visit the past, and taking