The Eddies Of The Aevitas

By Jim Valliere

The currents in the River of Time are powerful--powerful enough to pull Joe Samson in opposite directions, effectively splitting his soul and pulling him away from one destiny to another. However, all countercurrents must eventually rejoin the main channel. Only one Joe can exit the eddy and continue to live. Joe must journey back in time to the very birth of his soul to discover the connections in past lives that will affect his seemingly impossible decision on which Joe will exit the eddy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885055888

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

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The Eddies Of The Aevitas

Jim Valliere

Copyright © 2023 Jim Valliere

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88505-587-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88505-588-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

Joe hates this; he hates this with every fiber of his being. Not the driving, although he should be home eating dinner now, his growling stomach reminds him. However, he does love driving, and Joe loves his new truck. He waited six months to get it because he ordered it custom-made. It's a 2017 Ram 1500 4×4, with a Hemi, Ram boxes, air ride, an Outdoorsman package with mossy oak trim on sage-gold custom-colored paint, and all the bells and whistles. The truck has satellite radio, heated seats, GPS, moonroof, everything. Joe traded off his old truck and his midlife crisis sports car just to put a good down payment on it. Joe doesn't even mind driving in the snow. Even on nights like this where all a person can see in their headlights are snow, both lanes of I-80, and the reflective posts on the shoulder of the road, along with the ever-present Gatorade bottles full of trucker urine. Since he grew up in Northern Michigan, driving the backroads of the UP and the tip of the mitten; deer, duck, and rabbit hunting; fishing; and working, Joe has seen his share of snow over the last forty-six years. Although the snow in Wyoming is a bit lighter and drier up here in the mountains along I-80 between Rawlins and Elk Mountain, to Joe, driving in the snow is driving in the snow.

No big deal if you're prepared for it. Even driving at night, he says to himself, glancing at the clock on the dash, which reads 1849 (6:49 p.m.—Joe has been working at the prison for so long he automatically converts to military time). No, Joe hates that his daughter has to live like she does. Spending every other weekend away from him, with the woman that ran out on both of them seven years ago. Kelley, who's almost ten now, tells him all the time on the hour-long drive home that she doesn't sleep very well and doesn't get her snuggles and hugs, which are so important to her well-being. Joe loves his daughter more than his life, and he wouldn't trade her for anything, but he sure wishes he could change who her mother is.

The snowstorm intensifies, the wind changing directions back and forth in the mountain passes, forcing Joe to take his mind off his little girl and to concentrate on driving. Joe takes his foot off the accelerator pedal and lets the truck slow down on its own, careful not to use his brakes. Joe can now make out only what is in his lights and about half of that is just blowing snow. No white lines on the snow-encrusted blacktop, no reflector posts. Joe slows down even more, knowing that to stop completely in this kind of storm, not knowing if you're still in a lane, is a sure way to cause an accident. Joe creeps along about ten to fifteen miles an hour, keeping a sharp eye out for reflector posts and a sharper ear out for the rumble strips that have been put on the shoulder of the highway for just such an occasion.

Hopefully, this doesn't last too long, Joe mutters to himself, concentrating on trying to stay on the road. Joe thinks back over the last fifteen years he's spent in Wyoming and remembers that out here, the storms tend to come in fast-moving bands rather than the way storms back home in the Upper Peninsula did, where it can be a whiteout with lake-effect snows for hours, sometimes days at a time. Storms there seem to just park over the Great Lakes and generate tons of snow for most of the Midwest as well as a good portion of Canada.

This could be I-75 in Michigan for all I can see, Joe muses to himself, thinking about how similar all highways look during a snowstorm.

The snow begins to slow down after about ten minutes, allowing Joe to see more up ahead. Joe can see a green-mile marker sign on a post and slows down even more.

What the fuck? Joe exclaims to himself as he pulls over to stop in front of the mile marker.

338? Joe stares at the little green sign, feeling a pit of fear start to form in his stomach. There is no way that I drove all the way across the mountain through Laramie and then up the pass halfway to Cheyenne, Joe says to himself as he tries to make sense of this situation. Looking at his wristwatch, the time reads 1902 (7:02 p.m.) "There is no way I could have driven one hundred and fifty miles. I didn't even punch out till 1803 [6:03 p.m.], left Rawlins at about 1820 [6:20 p.m.].

That must be 238. Someone is playing a gag or something—338 has to be between Laramie and Cheyenne somewhere. There must be some snow stuck to the sign, Joe states, not believing the sign. Looking again at the sign in the swirling snow, Joe slowly pulls back onto the highway. Joe decides that there is no way on earth that he could have driven that far in that amount of time.

"Maybe in the summertime I could make it that far? Joe says, turning the wheel and getting back on the highway.

Well, the fucking Ex would get a kick out of this! I got lost on I-80 and blew right by Laramie and halfway to Cheyenne before I figured out I had gone too far. It's a good thing I'm by myself. Nobody has to know how bad that little bit of snow fucked me up for a minute, Joe jokes with himself, his voice trembling. Joe takes a deep breath to try to get that pit of fear to loosen up a bit.

He makes it about a half mile before he pulls off the highway again, staring in disbelief. Ahead on the right side of the road is a large lighted sign Bridge conditions tune to AM 940. The pit of fear in Joe's stomach instantly grows and elongates into the shape of a fairly large garter snake, and it immediately begins to squirm and probe around the interior of his abdomen, apparently looking for an exit. Joe has seen this sign before. He's seen it hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

It's just not here! Joe tells himself. Joe's heart starts to pound in his chest! Joe shakes his head, trying to clear it. He thinks out loud What the hell is going on here? I already crossed the Platte River, back at Fort Steele, and there hasn't ever been a sign there about bridge conditions. I can chuck a rock across that river! The river can't be a hundred feet wide there at the bridge. And the Medicine Bow River is smaller than that! Bridge, bridge, bridge, bridge, bridge, Joe mumbles without thinking, staring out the windshield at what the snow will allow him to see. The storm breaks, and there, just a few miles straight ahead of Joe, is the big white and extremely well-lit tower at the south end of the Mackinac Bridge—fourteen hundred odd miles from where it or Joe should have been.

What the fuck? was all Joe could say as the garter snake of fear grew to the size of a large boa constrictor and wrapped the coils around his heart, causing Joe to almost hyperventilate; he was breathing so fast. The shock is so much that Joe completely forgets about having to pick up his daughter and driving the truck. It coasts to a stop on the side of the highway.

Tap, tap, tap. Sir? Are you all right? Sir? asks a young black man in a Michigan State Troopers uniform. Rolling down the window, Joe takes a few seconds to reply.

Er, yeah, I'm fine, Officer. Just trying to get my bearings a bit. That snowstorm really kicked my ass, Joe weakly jokes, looking around.

Have you been drinking tonight, sir? the young trooper asks, using his flashlight to scan the insides of the truck for open or closed containers, signs of drugs, or anything suspicious. Not finding anything, the officer turns off the flashlight and faces Joe.

No, sir, I don't drink at all. I can be an asshole sober. Plus, I never could stand the stuff since I was a kid. Makes me feel all shitty and stupid, Joe answered, seeing what the trooper was doing. Would you like to…search the truck…sir? Joe offers, breathing too fast but unable to slow down.

No, I don't think that's necessary right now, the young trooper says, not seeing any alcohol and more importantly not smelling any on the older man's breath.

The young trooper thinks to himself, The way he's breathing I'd be able to smell the alcohol the second he opened the window. It's not the first time that he's found someone along the highway stopped and dazed. This doesn't appear to be alcohol- or drug-induced, probably just tired or maybe some early Alzheimer's. However, seeing that he hasn't broken any law, I'll get him off my highway. I hope.

You seem to be breathing kind of heavy, sir. Are you sure you're all right?

Yeah, I've been driving for quite a while and then the storm. I couldn't see with all that snow, so I pulled over. I guess I got kind of mesmerized by all the snow. Then I must have had a small panic attack when you knocked on my window and scared the shit out of me, Joe says, slowing his breathing down, doing his best to not look crazy in front of the policeman.

Okay, sir, I would suggest that you pull into town and get some rest and maybe something to eat, the trooper says, thinking Joe is crazy but not a danger to anyone.

Sounds like good advice, sir. I'm sorry to be a bother and to get you out of your warm car on a night like this, Joe says, determined to figure out what is going on, though not having a clue as to where to start.

Give me a moment to get in my cruiser, and I'll follow you into town, the trooper says, blowing warm air on his hand to keep them from freezing in the night air.

Will do. Um, I'm sorry for being a bother and for asking this, but where are we?

We're about two miles south of Mackinaw City, the young trooper states, looking incredulously over his left shoulder at the Mackinac Bridge. Are you sure you're all right, sir? he asked again, with one eyebrow cocked in a questioning manner. This motherfucker is lost or crazy or both. Better get him to town quick. My shift is almost over, the young trooper thinks as he walks back to his cruiser.

Yeah, it just seems like I've been driving in that damn snowstorm forever. It's nice to know where I'm at, Joe says, trying to hide his fear.

Joe keeps an eye on the trooper and waits till he turns the multicolored strobe lights off and flashes his high beams a few times to let Joe know that he's ready to go. Joe then pulls back onto the highway and drives approximately another mile and a half till the off-ramp, then he exits to the right, making sure to use his blinker when changing lanes so as not to provoke the young officer that was nice to him. Joe comes to a stop, with the trooper behind him, and turns right on Nicolet Street. He looks to the right and remembers the trout pond that was there in the '70s and early '80s, where he and his dad would always stop to catch some trout for his mother, who loved trout above all other fish. They would catch some on their way back home to Bay City from their annual fishing trips to the Upper Peninsula. It looks like a parking lot for that new mall now. Joe thinks to himself, looking over the snow-covered parking lots. Just past the Burger King, there is a hot dog place with a giant hot dog on the roof on the right side of the road, at the stoplight. Joe puts his right turn signal on and stops at the light. The trooper is two lanes away in the left turn lane, and he clicks on the dome light in the cruiser, gives Joe a thumbs-up sign, and waves. Joe waves back. When the light turns green, the trooper doesn't waste more time on Joe and turns to head back to the highway.

Joe sits at the green light for another moment trying to remember what he was doing and where he was going. His stomach then gives a small rumble, reminding him that even though his mind was confused, his body still knows what it wants. Joe turns to the right on the very wide Central Avenue of Mackinaw City. The well-lit avenue is almost completely deserted. This being the middle of winter the Northern Michigan tourist town has pretty much rolled up the sidewalks for the winter. There were a few businesses still open. Joe passes the hardware store on the right side of the avenue. Looking straight east, Joe sees some cars parked in front of a bar/restaurant. The Key-something-or-other—he had been to the bar back about twenty years ago. Back when he worked as a chef on Mackinac Island, just across the Straits of Mackinac in Lake Huron, he would come over to go shopping or to see a movie at the theater. If I remember correctly, that place has really greasy hamburgers and awesome French fries! Odds are high they have redone the menu and probably have switched from fresh potatoes to frozen, but it's worth a shot, Joe thinks to himself, pressing down on the accelerator pedal. His stomach rumbles once again at the memory of the delicious French fries. The truck's tires grip the snow, and it lurches forward through the swirling snow, down the empty street toward the bar.

Suddenly, the front of the truck drops about six inches, but it's not a hard landing, more like gravel or sand. The big snow tires throw up a wall of water and ice up and over the truck with a great whooshing sound, completely obscuring Joe's vision.

Oh, shit! Must be a broken water main! Joe exclaims, reaching his left hand for the windshield wiper controls, turning the wipers up to high, and hitting the four-wheel-drive button. Joe keeps the truck going slow but straight, up a large bump he thinks is the road, knowing there is no traffic in front of him and that a road that is washing out is no place to stop.

At last, something that makes fucking sense today! Joe exclaims as he stares through the windshield, waiting for the rivulets of water to clear. Having lived in this climate most of his life, Joe has seen many broken water mains running over many roads over the course of his life.

The water clears off the windshield and side windows, allowing Joe clear vision at last.

Mackinaw city. Gone!

The wide avenue. Gone!

The streetlights. Gone!

The broken water main. Gone!

In the place of the city is a forest—the kind of forest that Joe would expect in this part of the country, pine trees mixed with maple and oak trees, with a few birch trees spread about. Light underbrush with ferns that are just beginning to sprout above the short grass and dead leaves. The wide avenue is replaced by a narrow two-track, the kind that crisscrosses the Northwoods, which makes up most of northern states. The streetlights are replaced by stars shining through the branches of the trees and a campfire about 150 yards ahead. The only sign of the broken water main is the telltale rivulets of water that still trickle down the windows. Joe turns the wipers off without thinking.

Well, shit! If I could win a medal for speaking too fucking soon, I'd be wearing a gold one, Joe says to himself. He's glad to find out that his sense of humor hasn't completely abandoned him the way that reality apparently has. "This is some fucking Twilight Zone shit here," Joe says, shaking his head and looking down while stopping the truck, not even trying to figure this situation out anymore.

Lifting his head back up a few moments later, Joe sees someone waving at him from behind a campfire just down the road. Might just as well find out how fucking deep this rabbit hole is, Joe says, exasperated. Joe takes his foot off the brake and drives up the two-track to the campfire. As he pulls up, Joe sees behind the fire sits a very large man in a mouse-brown-colored Carhartt vest, a matching hat with a red-and-black flannel shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots. The big man is smiling and waving at Joe, inviting him to come sit in one of the two folding camp chairs by the fire. Joe puts the truck in park and turns off the engine, looking around. To the right of the campfire is a burgundy-colored Ford truck and a travel trailer that looks about thirty feet long. Both appear to be from the early '90s but in good condition. To the left of the campfire is a large aluminum fishing boat pulled up on the sandy shore of an immense swift-flowing river. Behind the campfire is a picnic table with several coolers of assorted colors, sizes, and shapes.

Joe gets out of the truck. He's more than a little surprised to feel how warm it is—feels like about fifty or fifty-five degrees. Joe inhales deeply through his nose, smelling the moist earth and trees of the northern forest, mixed with the wonderful scent of a campfire. Joe takes his WDOC jacket off and tosses it in the backseat of the truck and shuts the doors. Joe then, by the habit of working in a prison for fifteen years, studies his host more carefully. The man is a huge white guy that would be, if standing, well over six and a half feet tall, probably about 350 pounds, with a short dark-brown beard and dark-brown hair coming out from underneath his mouse-brown hat, and he has a jovial smile and clear blue eyes that seems to take in everything at once.

Been waitin' on you for a while now, the big man says in a deep baritone voice with a slightly Celtic-sounding accent. He lights a wooden pipe off a firebrand from the campfire. Hungry? I got hot dogs and all the fixings in that red cooler behind me. The big man points with the still burning branch at the cooler and then tosses the branch into the fire.

I-I-I don't know what to say or where to start, Joe stammers, walking slowly up the fire.

Come sit down and eat a hot dog and drink a pop. It will make you feel better! the big man states in a tone that makes the offer sound more like an order. Joe then sits in the other camp chair and stares into the yellow and orange flames, his mind spinning. The big man, seeing that Joe isn't in any state to comprehend, then gets up and goes to the red cooler and grabs out a package of hot dogs, buns, and a bottle of ketchup and mustard. The big man then brings these to a still stunned Joe and begins to hand them to him. The big man then looks down, seeing that Joe has his hands full.

Oh, sorry about that, the big man says, walking back to the picnic table, where he gets a small folding table with his right hand and a small blue beverage cooler with his left. The big man walks back to where Joe is sitting. Then he puts the cooler down between the chairs and sets the table up over the top of the cooler. Once this is complete, he reaches behind his chair and grabs a sharpened willow stick about four feet long and hands it to Joe, who has regained enough sense to start the process of shifting the contents of both hands to the small table.

Thanks, Joe says, taking the stick and sliding it under his leg so he can use both hands to open the package of hot dogs. Joe then takes a hot dog and skewers it in the end, making sure that half the length of the dog has a stick in it, and holds it out over the fire. Can you tell me what is going on with me? Joe asks, watching the hot dog begin to steam. The fear that has gripped his stomach has relaxed into a coil, his brain still foggy, but the feeling that there is something important that he is forgetting stays with him.

Have you finished eating yet? the big man asks, not even looking at Joe, poking the fire with a thick oak branch, sending sparks floating forty feet up into the windless sky.

No, but— Joe starts.

No buts! Eat your fill, then we'll talk this out, the big man says, interrupting Joe but still watching the sparks float up through the branches toward the stars.

It's been a while since I had hot dogs over a campfire. I don't mean to take advantage of your hospitality, Joe says, looking hungrily at the package of hot dogs.

I told you to eat your fill and get a drink. There are pops in the blue cooler, the big man says, getting up and walking over to the truck, where he grabs half an armload of firewood out of the bed of his Ford. Coming back, he puts a few oak logs on the fire and sits back down as Joe opens the cooler. Joe smiles as he looks at the contents of the cooler. Faygo Rock ‘n' Rye in the old-style glass bottles. Joe can't remember the last time he had one. Without pausing to ask if his host would like one, Joe twists the cap off the ice-cold bottle and drinks it about halfway down.

Ghaa! Cold! Joe exclaims with his throat constricting due to the cold liquid.

Good? the big man asks, smiling at Joe.

Yeah, it's been forever since I had one in a glass bottle, and you can't get Faygo in Wyoming, Joe says, draining the rest of the bottle in just a few swallows between large bites that reduce his first hot dog to nothing but crumbs.

Have another hot dog and pop, the big man says, leaning back in his chair, stretching his long legs out toward the firepit. The use of forever strikes his funny bone, a good solid whack.

All right. Thanks. You sure we have time? Joe asks, putting another hot dog on his stick. The feeling of urgency is not leaving his head in spite of the good food and drinks.

Ha escapes the big man's mouth as if he's laughing at some great private joke. When he composes himself, he says calmly, Don't ever worry about running out of time here, with a knowingly ironic smile on his face.

Joe eats two more hot dogs in silence. He sits in the folding camp chair chewing and thinking and sipping on his second Rock ‘n' Rye, this time to enjoy it. When he's finished, he gives off a great belch. Joe looks to his host, hoping that he has not offended him with his bad manners.

That's not bad manners. That's good chow! the big man, says smiling over at Joe. I'll get dessert. The big man gets up and walks over to the picnic table and pulls marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers out of another cooler. He then walks back and places them down on the folding table next to the hot dogs and buns. The big man reaches behind his chair and gets another sharpened willow stick. Sitting down, he puts a marshmallow over the point. Well, if you're done eating, go ahead and ask, or are you going to make a s'more? he says, nodding his head in the direction of the table that holds the s'more ingredients.

No. Thank you, I'm pretty full right now, Joe says, patting his belly in a demonstration of fullness. Joe then asks the only question that makes any sense at all to ask. Am I dead? Joe says, getting up and walking over to where the boat is pulled up on the sandy shoreline. Not recognizing the river at all, Joe shakes his head and looks down at his feet, feeling hopelessly lost. However, Joe does begin to feel his head clear a bit with the exercise and walks back to the fire.

Why would you ask that? the big man says, carefully turning the marshmallow over the fire, not even looking in Joe's direction.

Well, I got out of work less than two hours ago in Rawlins, Wyoming! I was just driving down the I-80 in Wyoming and then, whoosh, I'm on I-75 just south of Mackinaw City, Michigan, some fourteen hundred miles from where I should have been. Then next thing I know, I'm driving down the main street of Mackinac City. I hit a broken water main or something, water sprays up all over my truck, and when the water clears off the windshield, now I'm on an old two-track tote road somewhere by some random river. I don't even know if I'm even still in Michigan or not. So, to me, being dead is the only thing that makes sense. Or I'm in the Twilight Zone, but that's fantasy-bullshit-world stuff! Now I'm here in your campsite, and I don't even know who you are, Joe says, raising both arms in dismay. In his mind, he's making a weird shit list of questions that hopefully will be answered.

You're not dead, the big man says, inspecting his marshmallow, noting that it's a perfect golden brown color. He skips making a s'more and just pops it into his mouth. I'm not Mr. Rourke or Ricardo Montalban or Hervé Villechaize or even Rod Serling! They are all dead! You are not, and you can call me Mac to make things simple. You're not dead, Joe. You're just out of time, Mac says as he is chewing the marshmallow and trying unsuccessfully to keep it in his mouth without the molten substance from gushing out the side of his lips.

All Joe hears is out of time and begins to panic. His heartbeats feel heavy in his chest, as if his heart was made of steel and the ventricles were iron pistons and were firing out of order. I'm fucking dead. I slid off a mountain along I-80 or some dumbass semitruck who was driving too fast in the storm blew over in the wind and killed me, like that one did to my buddy from the prison a few years back when he was coming back from Laramie. Joe begins to pace back and forth on the other side of the fire from Mac.

Where were you headed? Mac asks offhandedly.

I was heading to my ex-wife's house to pick up my daughter, Kelley. At the mention of the name Kelley, the memories of his daughter come flooding in Joe's brain, effectively drowning out all reason. Fuck, I'm dead!

You're not dead, Mac says again.

Oh, Kelley, I'm sorry I died! Regret and grief begin to flow down Joe's cheeks. He sinks to his knees in the soft sand and begins to sob.

You're not dead! Mac yells a little to try to break through Joe's incoherent mumbling. His deep baritone is unable to penetrate the thick layer of emotion under which Joe is currently residing. Running out of patience, the big man looks about for options. The first thing he sees is the heavy oak branch that he has been stirring the fire with. Hmm, maybe later, the big man says to the stick, not wanting to eliminate any of his options. Spotting the bag of marshmallows, he reaches in and pulls out a handful and starts to throw them with ever-increasing force, trying to break through Joe's haze of grief and to gain his attention once more. Much to the big man's amusement, he discovered that he was a natural at marshmallow throwing and could hit Joe in the face with a marshmallow at will. The duration of the bag of marshmallows as well as several minutes of incoherent babbling were spent by Mac happily chucking the soft candy at Joe's head, littering the area with little soft white landmines of stickiness. Reaching in the bag and finding it to be empty, the big man sighs as his fun is apparently over. Aha, Mac says to himself happily as he reaches for the box of graham crackers. Removing one of the brick-shaped packages, he sets the rest of the box back down on the table. Mac then opened the brown wax paper package and attempted to break the crackers along the cracker perforations. His big hands, although superb for mallow throwing, are, however, terrible at the graham-cracker subdivision. The graham crackers are mostly shattered completely, the rest breaking into pieces too small to throw. Mac grabs the second brick of crackers and unwraps them and begins to bite the crackers into the shapes he wants. Soon there are brown slightly sweet throwing stars whizzing through the air. It takes four direct hits to the forehead to rouse some level of consciousness out of Joe. He then gets up and stumbles without seeing through the minefield of mallows, over to the area where the boat is pulled up on the shoreline, and leans up against the bow. Mac, still enjoying his game, continues to throw the graham-cracker throwing stars but is disappointed to find that at the farther range, the projectiles are nowhere near accurate. Many fall short or curve to the left or the right of the target. Mac gets up out of his chair and walks over to the boat, carrying the oak branch, just in case, the end in the firepit glowing orange. As the big man approaches Joe, he steps on several of the would-be throwing stars, crunching them into the soft earth.

Joe, hearing the crunching sounds approaching, looks up at the much bigger man with watery eyes and says, I guess it could be worse. I figured I'd go straight to hell and I'd have a big-ass demon shoving a red-hot poker up my ass by now. Mac looks down at the oak branch still glowing in his hand. Thinks about showing it to Joe but determines that it might cause way more trouble than he wants to deal with, he quickly tosses it into the firepit. Luckily Joe doesn't see it fly across the campsite. He wipes his eyes with his hands and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his uniform shirt. Joe sees Mac looking at the snot on his sleeve It's all right. I work at a prison. That's one of the least offensive substances that have ever been on this shirt. Joe looks down and sees that he's a complete mess—snot on his sleeve, spots of powdered sugar and gram cracker crumbs mixed with tears all over his uniform shirt. Self-conscious, he unbuttons the dark-blue shirt and takes it off, rolling it into a ball, leaving him in a black V-neck T-shirt. He walks to his truck, opens the back door, and grabs a camo-colored pullover hooded sweatshirt with Duck Dynasty embroidered on the chest. Joe pulls the sweatshirt over his head. He takes a deep breath and walks back to where Mac is standing, waiting for him. Joe, who is still convinced that he's dead, is determined to make the best of the situation. So I see you have a boat. Is that heaven on the other side of the river?

You still think you're dead? Mac asked, frustrated that Joe isn't listening to him but happy and relieved that Joe appears to have passed the worst part of his emotions and might be more open to conversation.

Yeah, do I have to wait here till I'm buried? Not waiting for an answer, Joe continues. 'Cause if I slid off a mountain, it might take them until spring to find my body, and of all the funerals, I've been to lately, I haven't seen anyone put coins on the eyelids of the dead, so if you need some payment, I have some change in the truck, Joe rattles off quickly.

No, you're not listening to me. You're out of time! Not dead! Mac says, starting to lose his temper.

How could I be out of time and not be dead? Joe asks innocently, not understanding the concept.

There now. That is a pertinent question! Mac says, giving off a huge sigh, relieved that the conversation has finally turned in the direction it needs to go. The big man smiles and sighs deeply, trying to think of how he can explain the situation. Joe stands there waiting for an answer with a puzzled look on his face.

Okay. We'll try this. Let us say for the purpose of this conversation that the boat is time. You're not in the boat right now, are you?

No. I'm not, Joe says, confused.

Right. The boat is a vessel for you to move from place to place in, which is almost the same way that time is. The only real difference is that when you get in a boat or a car, you're not changed when you get to your destination, Mac explains as a teacher to a not-so-bright child. Joe stands there stunned, trying to understand the scope of what has just happened to him. He had been to several universities when he was younger but had never taken temporal theory or theoretical physics.

Are you sure I'm not dead? Joe says, beginning to understand but just not quite getting it, so his mind reverts to something he thinks he can understand.

Do you feel dead? Mac says.

How should I know? I've never been dead before. Joe shrugged his shoulders at the big man.

Yes, you have. More times than you can count, Mac says, turning and looking out over the river. Huh, well, I guess a little field trip is in order. Figures you'd have to be one of the stubborn ones who have to see everything for himself. Get in the boat. The big man walks over to the bow and waits.

Here, I'll help you launch it, Joe says, putting his right shoulder against the bow and pushing as hard as he can. The boat doesn't budge an inch. The big man can't help but smile.

Get in the boat, Joe, Mac says and offers his hand and assists Joe in climbing over the gunnels into the boat. Walk to the stern. I'll get us underway.

Joe walks to the back of the boat, his sportsman's eye checking out the watercraft. It's a deep V-style twenty-to-twenty-one footer. It has an open bow with a seat on a sturdy aluminum post with a bow-mounted trolling motor. Behind that, there are two light-brown vinyl captain's chairs behind their own windshield. The floor was a flat deck with dark-brown indoor-outdoor carpet. There was a live well behind the driver's seat, with a boat cushion on the lid. A large back deck area that a person even the size of Mac could lie down and stretch out. Behind the passengers, the seat was a large two-toned green tackle box. There are several fishing rods in the rod compartment on the wall next to the passenger seat. Directly in the middle of the stern gunnel is a huge green nylon fishing net standing straight up in a holder. Following that there are two 250-horsepower Evinrude outboard motors. The boat jolts as Mac shoves it off the sandy shore, forcing Joe to grab a hold of the fishing net to keep his balance. The big man effortlessly jumps into the boat and lands lightly in the bow as the boat floats gently out into the current. Mac then gets into the captain's seat and turns the key, firing up the two big outboards. Waving with his left hand, he motions Joe to sit in the passenger's seat. Joe quickly sits down as Mac skillfully backs the boat up and turns the boat around and points the bow out into the current of the big river.

Joe, who has always enjoyed being on the water, finds himself relaxing and enjoying the experience. He quickly discovers that the emotions that were just a few moments ago so raw that he could hardly breathe are still there; however, there seems to be some kind of blockage that stops him from feeling the full force. Joe sighs and chalks it up to weird shit I can't explain and tries to put it out of his mind. He continues to look around and notices that the sun is starting to rise. Another thing that doesn't make sense and gets added immediately to the list. Looks like it's going to be a nice day, Joe says loudly to be heard over the engines.

Aye, the big man says, nodding and steering the powerful boat toward the middle of the huge river.

Hey, what river is this? Joe yells over the wind and the roar of the twin engines. Looking at the river, it is well over a mile wide with nothing but miles and miles of unbroken forest as far as the eye can see.

This is the River Aevitas! Mac yells proudly.

Aevitas? Where is that? I've never heard of a River Aevitas in Michigan or in America.

It goes through Michigan and America. Well kind of, or actually Michigan and America goes through it. All rivers run through it, and it runs through all rivers to be closer to the truth. Mac nodded his head in agreement with himself.

Aevitas, that sounds like a different language. Does that mean something in English?

This is the River of Time, Joe, the big man says, turning the boat upriver as the boat comes to a large swirling eddy.

There is actually a ‘River of Time'? Joe asks loud enough to be heard, thinking that he's going to have to add more stuff to his weird shit list.

You're floating on it! Mac says and happily slaps Joe on the back, pleased that more progress is being made.

Joe turns in his seat, looking at the fishing gear in the back of the boat. You fish in the River of Time? Joe yells with a puzzled look on his face.

Absolutely! Why not? It's great fishing! Mac says over the engines, smiling broadly, slowing the boat down to trolling speed. The twin engines run quietly at just above idle so that they could talk without having to yell.

Er, um, well, what kind of fish are in here? Joe asks, his sportsman curiosity kicking into high gear checking out the variety of rods and reels in the storage bin next to his seat.

"Oh, anything and everything that has ever or ever will swim in any river. Everything you'd ever want to catch. Pike, walleye, trout, bass, salmon, anything from perch to a Plesiosaurus."

"There are Plesiosaurus in this river?" Joe asks, keeping his head back but trying to stare into the water. Joe, who had spent days at the Wyoming Dinosaur Center with Kelley, knows exactly what a Plesiosaurus is. It's an animal from the Jurassic Period that had a small head and long neck and had lived in the water. They had big flippers and were about twelve feet long.

Oh, yeah, lots of them, but don't worry, we'd have to go way up the river to have a chance of seeing one. The biggest thing that's in this part of the river is sturgeon, and they are harmless. Next, the biggest is the Mekong giant catfish. I hooked into one of them a while back. The damn thing was the size of a Buick, took almost all day to land it, Mac says, looking around and pointing to a small island in the distance to the east below the rising sun. Had to beach the boat there and fight it from the land. When I got that big sucker in, I was so freaking tired I just camped on the island that night.

"What was the landing that Plesiosaurus like?" Joe asks wide-eyed, trying not to sound like a starstruck kid.

Well, I'll tell you, Mac says, warming up to tell the story. "I wasn't trying to catch one. I was fishing for lungfish. I hooked a good one, and you know that Plesiosaurus will only bite on live bait, and lungfish is one of their favorite meals," Mac says, expecting Joe to know what a Plesiosaurus likes to eat. "So anyway, I'm standing up there in the bow reeling in this lungfish. It was a good-sized one, maybe fifteen to twenty pounds. Then this damn Plesiosaurus grabs it right next to the boat. I'll tell you, if you want an experience that will make you shit yourself, I'll take you up the river and you can try to hook one like that," Mac says, smiling from ear to ear.

Hey, one fucked-up day at a time, please! Joe says, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

Yes, of course. You were quite the blubbering mess, weren't you? Mac says, waving off the gesture. "Where was I? Oh, I remember the Plesiosaurus grabbed the lungfish and started to swim downstream. I thought it was a big snake till the back came out of the water. ‘Holy shit!' I said. All I could do is hold on for dear life. Had I known how much trouble it would cause, I would have just cut the line, but I wasn't thinking about anything but landing that big bastard. He pulled me and the boat for days downstream. He was stronger than a damn hippo! I couldn't seem to ever gain ground on him. I was just about to give up when he started to show signs of getting tired. He swam up this tributary, and I thought he was about done. Just below Urquhart Castle, on Loch Ness. I managed to beach my boat and fight the beast from shore. When it was finally over, I was too tired to lift my arms, like with the catfish. The big man stands up and demonstrates by turning his upper body while his arms swing limply at his sides in a comical manner. Joe begins to chuckle as the big man pretends that his arms won't work, staring down at them in mock disbelief as he shrugs his shoulders. I rested for about an hour or so. The beast didn't move a bit. Then with my arms working again, I walked up to it and pulled this out of its mouth. It was barely attached to anything, Mac says, sitting back down and pulling a gold-colored treble hook out of the glove compartment. Two of the hooks were almost completely straightened out. Handing it to Joe for his inspection, Mac says, Gotta be pretty damn strong to straighten that out."

What is it? It feels pretty lightweight, but it can't be aluminum, Joe says, hefting the twisted metal in his right palm and studying the bends in the hooks.

Titanium, Mac says, putting out a large hand to take back his prized possession.

So what trouble was there? You didn't say you got bit or anything. Just something about a castle. Did you get busted for trespassing or something?

I thought it was dead. So I just left it there. Figured the birds would take care of the corpse for me. Didn't realize till later that it was still alive and managed to get back into the water. Then without its connection to me, the poor thing swam around Scotland scaring the shit out of people for years—till I could catch it again and drag its lizard ass back upriver.

How did you manage to catch it again? From what I hear Loch Ness is pretty damn big, Joe says, getting up and walking to the back of the boat, leaning against the gunnels, basking in the newly risen sun. The golden warmth prompted him to take off his sweatshirt.

Mac, opening the cooler behind his seat, pulls out two ice-cold Faygo, one Red Pop, and one cream soda, handing them both to Joe. Joe thanks him and takes the Red Pop and hands Mac the other one. Mac opens the cream soda and takes a long swig. I had to go all the way back upriver and catch a bunch of lungfish and bring them back and troll up and down, up and down. You know what? Mac asks Joe, pointing his cream soda at him.

No. What? Joe says, rubbing his arms and pushing up the sleeves on his T-shirt. After a winter in Wyoming, the warm morning on a boat was feeling mighty good.

With a name like lungfish, you'd expect it to be pretty easy to keep them alive, wouldn't you?

Well, I don't—

You'd be wrong! the big man breaks in, not letting Joe finish. They are extremely touchy about temperature, and nitrates levels too high or too low will kill them deader than a guppy in a brand-new aquarium. Took me a while, but I figured out how to acclimate them to Loch Ness water. Once I had that straight, it was a simple matter of hooking into the beast again and dragging him back upstream. But hell, we've digressed quite a bit. I was going to show you something. Pick a color, Mac says speeding the boat back up to bring it up to planning speed.

What? Why? Joe asks, putting the cap back on his Red Pop.

We have to find you, Mac says, standing up and looking out over the massive river.

I'm right here, Joe says, waving his hand at the bigger man and smiling.

We have to find you in time, Mac says with a look that says he's clearly not impressed with Joe's powers of deductive reasoning.

In time for what? Joe says, looking at his watch, which was still on Wyoming time and read 2300.

No! In time! In the flow of time. In the fucking river! Mac roars, losing his patience. Pick a color!

Okay, navy blue, Joe says looking down at his BDU work pants. I don't see how that will help.

I suppose that you think that all you are is a little speck floating down the River of Time! Mac says, looking Joe in the face.

I guess so. Joe shrugs his shoulders meekly.

You guessed wrong. You're eternal! You know what that means? Mac says, yelling way too loud to be just heard above the engines.

Hey, Mac, I've been through a lot in the last four fucking hours, so maybe if you could give me a break on all this shit that was till a few hours ago just a theory, I might be able to keep up with you a bit more! Joe says standing with squared shoulders in the back of the boat, letting his legs absorb the shock from the boat rocketing over the surface of the water. His brown eyes are clear and angry, plainly not intimidated by the larger man. The fifteen years of working at the prison have taught Joe not to back down to any opponent, even a man as big as Mac.

You're right. I'm sorry. This must be really hard for you. I would say that for the most part, you're doing pretty well, Mac says calmly as he throttles back the engines, bringing the boat to a slow stop in the calm water. The boats wake the only movement on the water in this part of the river. Oops! We went too far up the river, Mac says, pointing to a navy blue ribbon-like object that looks like a monochromatic rainbow about the water about 150 yards behind the boat and off to the east. There you are! Mac says triumphantly and throttles up enough to move the boat carefully to the ribbon of blue. Pulling up beside it, he carefully stops the boat within an arm's length of the navy blue arch and anchors the boat with a fore and aft anchor to hold this exact position.

Joe takes a closer look at the blue span. It looks like a navy-blue ribbon or streamer that rises out of the clear water without any support and shimmers over the water for about thirty feet before dropping back into the water. The ribbon looks to be about four inches wide and as thin as paper. As he stares at it, a complex pattern of light and darker blues appear on the surface of the ribbon, reflecting the bright sunlight in a dazzling display of