Time Warp

The swirl of grey smoke alerted me to the chimney of a cabin in the forest glen.
“Medieval,” I thought to myself, as indeed it was.
For out of the cabin came a swarthy, heavy peasant-like man, “What brings ye here?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not sure. I seem to have passed through a time warp.”
“Time warp?” he responded, looking puzzled, yet observing my attire as something rather unusual.
“Yes, what year is it here?”
“Year?” he replied with another incredulous look, “I’d think ye’d at least know that, even if ye didn’t know the day and the o’clock.”
“Hrumph!” I said, a bit put off by his rudeness.
“All right, fine feller, the year is 1521, and the church is in a mess. The peasants are revolting.”
“I agree,” I said, eyeing his untidy appearance, “They certainly are.”
He didn’t seem to understand my humor. If he had, he might have been at least a little insulted.
“Ye’d better not be that scalawag monk, Luther, y’know the one who made off with a nun. I’ve got not time for either of them trouble makers and I won’t let ye hide in my chambers, if y’are.”
“I hardly think an English gentleman could be mistaken for a German priest.”
“Then, what business have ye here. You one of them Church of England fellows?”
I chuckled that he would mistake for anyone religious.
“So why are ye laughing?”
“No, rest your fears. I’m simply an Englishman who’s lost his way. I seem to have transported beyond four hundred years. It must have happened when I was shaving this morning. I thought the mirror looked a little blurry and…”
“Ye mean yer looking glass? Ye must be rich. There’s a clue for ye, getting’ back, I mean.”
“No, I don’t think I’d be considered rich, just middle class. And even the poorest have mirrors.”
“Sounds like a place I’d rather be meself.”
I heard a lady’s voice in the house.
“Who’s that, Eldridge?”
“Just a feller lost his way.”
“Ye leavin’ him out there? It’s not even polite, ye know.”
Then, I heard some childish giggles, and two curly-headed girls peeked out on each side of the homeowner. They each work white-laced bonnets, one dark haired, the other younger, blonde. They looked to be around 8 and 6 respectively. They had the appearance of smiles and curiosity.
“Are you the pope?” said the dark haired one.
This sent me into excruciating laughter, again, that I should be tagged with religion of any sort.
“Why’s that so funny?” My host paused, looking suspicious, “Don’t yer believe in God?”
“Most assuredly,” I replied, “but I practice religion only privately.”
“That’s just an excuse for no religion a‘tall.”
“Well,” said the lady’s voice, “If you want to show him good Christian kindness, at least, let him in “
The rogue opened the door, with his girls giggling on each side, to the most beautiful, though ragged looking, woman I’d ever had the good fortune to see.
She placed her soft, lily-white hand in mine.
“Very pleased to meet you gentleman,” she said, “Name’s Jenny.”
“I stammered, “P-p-pleased to meet you too, Madam”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to supper making. You’re welcomed to attend.”
The man gazed at me uncomfortably. I’d been unable to conceal my awe, regarding his wife.
“Oh no, I can’t impose,” I said, partly out of deference to the hulkish chap.
“Have some tea, then, and a biscuit.”
“Thank you.”
I felt the warmth of the tea brew near my lips and its unmistakable fine tea aroma, took a bite out of the scone and sat back in my chair, breathing deeply.
I opened my eyes. The family and the scene were gone. I blinked twice again, fell asleep once more in my chair, in my own room.
Upon opening my eyes again, there they were, all four of them.
“Are ye all right, man?” said the peasant, attentively.
I was rather nervously bolting upright, “Why yes, I must be going on,” I excused myself.
As I left the cabin and waved to the family, I walked toward the King’s Brook.
I looked in its reflection and watched it ripple.
“There’s a reason why I traveled here.”
I thought of the new “stringer” who bore a remarkably uncanny resemblance to the wife, and who’d applied yesterday at my newspaper. She fancied herself a freelance writer, preferred the Faith and Family Section, human-interest articles, she said. I’d told her I’d call her, and shrugged her off, just a pretty face, I thought.
The ripples became waves as I looked in the mirror at my own reflection.
“Miss Wilkes?” I asked after hearing the pleasing voice of the lady on her cell.
“Yes?”
“I’m the editor, Mr. Fairchild, from the Times.”
“Really?” she responded excitedly.
“My intuition tells me you’d be a ‘natural’ for this kind or work. You have an assignment at First Presbyterian tomorrow at 7 in the evening, a community interfaith dialogue of sorts, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll do everything I can to prove myself a good reporter, sir.”
“I’m sure you will,” I concluded the conversation and hung up the phone.
“She won’t have to prove a thing,” I thought, confidently.