An NYU professor takes an unexpected trip back in time, traveling hundreds of years and hundred of miles to find his True love.
NYU Professor Brian Traylor grudgingly takes his girlfriend to a “psychic” in midtown Manhattan.His skepticism dissolves when he witnesses the woman’s ability and there is something about her he is inescapably drawn to.
Traylor is inadvertently drawn into the late 1600’s.He is tried and convicted of being a witch.He is jailed, pilloried, and tortured.When he escapes he finds himself traveling west through the Wampanoag nation, the Seneca, and finally the peaceful Shawnee of the Ohio Valley.All the while trying to get back to the girl in Manhattan he has fallen in love with.He witnesses the destruction of the world from the Native American’s viewpoint.
Excerpt
His head hurt.
His arm hurt.
When he thought about raising his eyelids, they hurt, too.
Everything hurt!
Oh man, what did he get into last night?
He did not want to open his eyes.
He didn’t want to move. Maybe his conscious mind could will itself back into unconsciousness—and sleep off the hangover threatening to explode the minute he sat up.
He was in pain, but not tremendously so. If he just kept his eyes closed and lay where he was, wherever that was, he would go back to sleep and everything would be better when he woke up.
He tried not to think about the pain that increased as he began to wake up in spite of himself. The steady throb in his forearm was the worst, but his head hurt, too. He wondered if maybe he hadn't broken his arm, but the thought was detached; he was not overly concerned about it. He did not want to acknowledge the pain’s existence. If he just didn’t move. If he just kept his eyes shut.
Back to sleep, he ordered his stubborn mind. A mind that was rousing itself even as he tried to will it back to oblivion.
He let his eyes open to the merest of squints.
His cheek was lying on frozen ground--a thin layer of snow—no, frost, seemed to be covering everything.
He was . . . in the woods?
His eyes opened in their own rebellious partnership with his waking brain. Jack Frost had indeed dusted the ground liberally—everywhere except where his numb body had melted or blocked it. He wondered how long he had been here.
He lay on his stomach and though his front was soaked from cheek to knee, (he guessed his feet were keeping his shins off the ground) it felt relatively warm and he was still hesitant to move.
He closed his eyes again, wishing that whatever had happened to him last night hadn’t. Maybe a cop would come along and, having the courtesy not to wake him, take him to a hospital or detox ward. When he woke up again he would be lying on crisp white sheets, clean, dry, and pain-free. There would be an IV running into the back of his hand supplying drugs and saline solution.
Yeah, and then a Hollywood-beautiful nurse would come into the room with a half-open blouse and no bra.
Let’s get real, Traylor.
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