Pieces of Time

Comprised of 5 episodes, this story has to do with an elderly man who, after looking back on his life and feeling he always had more to offer, but could not at the time, decided to change all that...

Episode I of V

In 1921, shortly after the 1^st World War, a young man stumbled onto a partially disturbed grave site in a runaway field of red rock and lilac bushes outside a tiny town that would eventually come to be known as Parrsboro in the province of Nova Scotia.  There, at the head of the grave, behind a makeshift marker, noticing the corner of something protruding from the ground, he unearthed the remainder of what turned out to be a rather ornate looking, flat wooden box.   Upon closer inspection, it appeared absolutely pristine much to his surprise.  Dusting it off before lifting the brass latch, inside, he discovered a shiny, circular disk suddenly catching the sunlight over his shoulder and based on its size, determined it would fit easily in the palm of his hand.  Etched in ink across its face was a sequence of numbers, ‘19821111’ and beneath them, three words he wasn’t able to make out at first glance as some of the letters had been rubbed off, or erased.  The gold-plated object rested on a stack of papers, equally as crisp and unspoiled as the coffer they were stored in and, all at once, he debated whether or not to even remove the contents from its own kind of casket or, God forbid, take it all with him. 

 

After examining the grave site further however, and determining it was completely empty, feeling the box, and what it contained, belonged to no one for the moment anyway, in a convenient, purely technical sense, he smiled, though at the same time, glanced up at the name staring back at him and again, strangely puzzled by the date beneath it; for whatever reason, there was only the one.  Odd he thought, and even more so by the fact that it represented sometime in the future, if it was a date at all.  The name, “J*hnn*e Da*e, ‘Ti*eWa**er’ was badly scratched, and damaged, and had more of the headstone missing than just letters as well while the numbers clearly read, ‘20360619’.  None of it making much sense, but believing it was something he needed to do, the young man decided to take everything and, closing the lid, suddenly comfortable with his decision, Harry left for home.

 

Sometime later, and always aspiring to become a sea captain like his father, Harry, now twenty-five, married and expecting their fourth child, and having deciphered very little about his fortuitous treasure, though intrigued by the thought of solving what, for him, had become a bit of a lingering dead end, returned to the grave site.  The name had proved to be easy, and soon enough, he’d come up with “Johnnie Dale, ‘TideWalker”.  At first, he was astonished with his assumption and then shocked even by the notion.  ‘Dale’; it was, of all things, his own family name.  Harry, left to his own devices and with little in the way of records or archives at the time, trusted that his mother would be able to put his mind to rest, even if that wasn’t the case for his absent, though not-so-clearly departed, deadman, the elusive ‘TideWalker’.  Anxious to hear what she had to say, he went to see her; sadly however, the woman was powerless to offer up any details about his mystery man, though she could account for every one of their relatives, past and present, alive and dead, since arriving in the county.  And, to the best of her recollection, none were ever named Johnnie Dale nor buried in an abandoned rockery on the outskirts of town that, according to her, overlooked the prettiest place on earth.

 

Unable to confirm even the name or the man’s existence, and with little else to go on except for the date on the marker, itself a conundrum, he’d look through the documents for something he must surely be missing…

Author's Note

Please note that this timely tale is headed towards much more than just an ending on paper should you, the reader, choose to pursue it.

Mick Finn...