Page 23 of Destiny Reclaimed
Reaching up, the man outstretched his hand and Jack shook it.
"It's good to see you," he said for lack of something better.
"You, too," Ken replied in a tone that made it sound like he actually meant it.
A tinge of relief sifted through him.
After downing a cup of coffee and a donut, he and his father went on their way. His dad drove out of town, down a county road they didn't travel often, but he knew where they were headed. Why his dad decided to visit the old, overgrown, county-owned cemetery today was beyond him. But, he was sure he had a reason in mind—the man of few words would inform him when the time was right.
His father turned down the narrow, plowed gravel road, and parked in the small lot that housed the trailhead leading to the cemetery. They slid out of the vehicle and started down the half-mile, lightly snow-covered trail. The unseasonably warm sun peeking through the overcast sky had begun to soften the frosty ground. Hardwoods bordered the trail to the left and cedars to the right. Looking ahead, slightly beyond the end of the cedar tree-lined lane, he zoned in on the sumac surrounding the old cemetery that looked like a little island of dead trees and brush between two distinctive forests of cedar trees.
Crisp, cool, yet refreshing air stung his nostrils. Any breath of home was better than any breath of war—any breath he'd taken in the past couple of years. Also, better than the hot, fiery air he’d experienced during his first time travel episode.
He followed his father to the barely noticeable entrance of the cemetery. If one didn't know the graveyard existed, they certainly wouldn't realize it when walking by because of the dead trees and tightly woven mangled brush surrounding it.
Jack studied the plot. Weathered old stones within the cemetery poked out of the weeds and brush, and the inch or two of snow. Years of settling had them leaning slightly in all directions. Long ago, these stones probably stood tall and proud, and tight to one another, to stand watch and protect those war heroes and their families buried there.
Returning his gaze to the entrance before him—two taller stone pillars separated by a four-foot gap—he strained his eyes to look through the spindly brush to find his great-grandfather's grave marker. He knew exactly where it was but had a hard time seeing it through the mangled shrubbery even without the foliage that had disappeared for another season.
Stepping forward, his dad gripped a handful of brush, pulled it aside, and stepped through the entrance. He held the branches in place until Jack passed through.
Jack looked down to his immediate right, to the first grave marker on the plot. Though the flat headstone was covered with snow, he knew it was there. It was that of his great grandfather Ben's first cousin, Simon Dupont.
His father didn't pay much attention to Simon's marker. Rather, he moved in the opposite direction toward where his great grandfather was buried.
"What a mess," his dad said. Disappointment laced his tone. "I don't understand why the county won't let us clean this up. Make it more respectable."
"I know. Maybe we can petition them again," Jack replied.
The exasperated puff his father blew out fogged in the cool air.
"Just look at this," his dad said as he pointed to the short path leading to Ben and the other veterans’ graves. "It won't be long and we won't be able to get through at all to pay our respect."
Jack stared at the brush that through the years began to close the gap between the entrance to the cemetery and most of the graves. The spindly branches had begun to form an archway several feet wide and slightly short of six feet tall. For as far back as he could remember, he and his father generally only came to this cemetery on Decoration Day to place flags on the graves of the veterans, so curiosity had begun to build as to why they were here today, in February.
He ducked slightly as he followed his dad through the archway which then opened up a bit as they approached his great grandfather's burial site.
His father squatted down and brushed the snow off the flat, weathered marker engraved with Jack's great grandfather's name and information—Ben Cornelis, Civil War, 1848 - 1907.
"You were a brave soldier. A true war hero and I will forever be proud of you," his dad said, his gaze focused on the marker as he rose.
His dad was only six years old when Ben, his grandfather, died, yet, when he’d spoken of him through the years, he seemed to have clear memories of the man. Jack couldn't help but wonder if that was because his father had traveled back in time and got to know his grandfather better. What a crazy, yet intriguing, thought—circumstance.
Curiosity had him wanting to ask questions, but he didn't, figuring his dad would release such information when he saw fit. Everything he did and said was with great caution and timing.
"I sometimes still can't believe his story." His father glanced over his shoulder toward him then bounced his gaze between the headstone and him.
He knew what his dad was about to say; he told the same story every time they visited this cemetery.
"Sneaking away from home at the young age of fourteen and lying to the military about his age so he could join the Army and fight for the North," his dad said, then shook his head. "Some say he was just a drummer boy, but the silver medal he was awarded proved differently." His father re-focused on him. "A true war hero he was. Throwing down his drum, pulling a pistol from a fallen soldier, and..." His dad swallowed hard. "...killing a confederate soldier as the man aimed at his commanding officer, saving him." The pride laced in his gaze diminished as he looked back toward Simon Dupont's grave. "We can't let those thieving relatives steal our history. We just can't. Our ancestors worked so hard, fighting for what they believed in, protecting our great country."
Jack’s heartbeat raced. This was it. This was what he hoped his father brought him to the cemetery today. To talk about—prepare him more thoroughly for—his role as a Preserver.
"We must do everything in our power to preserve history. One slight change. One little misstep could alter everything. And not only for us—our family. Everybody—the world. If we fail to preserve history the collateral damage..." his eyes darkened and his gaze drifted away.
Jack waited him out in silence, though eager for more details.
Moments later, his dad refocused.
