Bones of No Contention

Bones of No Contention

The golden leaves of the massive oak on the village green swayed gently in the wind on a fine autumn day. My eyes followed the soft rhythm, and I could almost hear a melody rising and falling as the leaves did their endless sweet dance. My feet felt as if they were planted in the earth, connected to the roots of this ancient tree. Yet, of the rest of my body, I could not discern any sensation; nor could I quite understand what brought me here. My knowledge of the wind was visual, not visceral. The glints of sunlight that poked occasionally through the leaves radiated like small suns, but my eyes remained unaffected by this brightness.

I turned my head, but nothing else looked familiar. It was as if all the old structures had either been torn down or had simply faded away, only to be replaced by unrecognizable, unfathomable steely structures that bore an eerie resemblance to icebergs. Where were the long-skirted, bonneted ladies with their hearty children in tow, carrying cloth sacks of potatoes and other comestibles? Where were the sturdy young men with their axes ready to build more of the wooden town that had been slowly rising around us?

Gone! Everything gone. Women sashayed down concrete streets with men’s trousers and hair clipped so short, the ladies seemed almost bald. Men wore odd shirts with pointed collars and long cloths suspended around their necks. Children were totally absent that day. It did not seem that they had been released from the one-room schoolhouse down the road to help with the reaping. I missed the smoky smells of cooking and harvesting.

To whence had I been transported? I could not move my feet to walk, so I twisted my body around back to the tree and was astonished to see my own name emblazoned upon a small plaque that had been nailed upon the trunk. It read thusly: “Here lies the Bones of Richard James Weatherby, re-interred in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and ought-nine beneath this Tree. May his Beloved Soul watch over All who pass by or sit beneath its Branches.”

Oh, I was dead then, was I? How long I do not know. In my days of life, I had been a watchman at the old clock tower, which had been the highest point in town when I was alive. My job, as I recall it, was to make sure that everyone was safe from intruders, whether they came in the darkness of night or the glare of the day. I had had a lovely wife and daughter, but, sure as God’s little apples, I have lost track of their whereabouts. . . .

• • •

As to whatever century this may be, I do not know. I do realize this: It is my afore-ordained task to watch over the people in this town and carry any messages of alarms to the authorities. So watch I will. And, when I see someone in need of Our Lord’s help, never let it be said that Old Weatherby ever failed to carry the message even beyond my lovely grave beneath this tree.

Author’s Note: This story was inspired by the discovery of a skeleton buried beneath a tree, which was uprooted by Superstorm Sandy. People have been discussing what to do with the bones, with some people saying that they need a proper (modern) burial and other people saying that these bones should be left where they are.