Chapter Seven: Letters
Okay, okay. Here is the seventh and final chapter to the Fourth Wall, plus the Epilogue, since it's only about half a page long. Hope you all have enjoyed the story. Cassie, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and a half you hadn't read as much as I enjoyed tormenting you with the five and half that you had. (Diagram that sentence.) Anyway here it is. Enjoy!
***
Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 117,843, Home of the Bridges Performing Arts Center, the Interlochen of the South
Year 2070.
"Daniel? Hey, Daniel, hold up a minute!" Daniel Farthington sighed. It was that kid again . . . he had come to work for Daniel recently. He was bright, energetic, and enthusiastic . . . sometimes a little too enthusiastic. At the moment, he was enthusiastically chasing Daniel down the hall. Daniel kept walking . . . but not too quickly. Wearing though he was, the kid had a knack for finding things, and he usually found something interesting.
"Daniel?" the boy caught up with him. He was a nondescript young man, with a mop of brown hair, crooked glasses, and an excited look on his face. He was not a particularly imposing figure, yet he always made Daniel nervous when he came into a room. This was why. "Listen, Daniel, I found something that you’ve got to see." He had practically run down the hall; Daniel could tell by his shortness of breath and his flushed face, though that may just have been from excitement. He was clutching several pieces of paper in his hand.
"Is it that thing you’ve been obsessed over, instead of doing your job, by any chance?" Daniel asked.
"I think, once you hear this, you’ll agree that it’s important," he said.
"All right, Tim," Daniel said with resignation . . . plus, he really was curious now. "Come into my office and show me."
They made their way to Daniel’s somewhat cluttered cubicle. Daniel never had been very good at keeping his work area organized, but at least he had some idea where everything was. Usually.
"All right," Tim was saying. "Well, I was playing around with the database during my lunch hour . . ."
"Tim, how many times have I told you that the database is not a computer game for your amusement?"
"I know, but listen. I put in your name, just to see what I would find . . ."
"I won’t even ask why," Daniel said. "Surely you’re not spying on me?"
"Would you just listen?" Daniel smiled, and shut up. "It came up with the usual stuff . . . birth record, school transactions, employment records, career accomplishments, awards . . . mostly pretty boring."
"Well, I’m glad you think of my life as such."
Tim kept going as though he hadn’t heard him. "But there were four items that were very odd."
"Really? How so?"
"They’re all addressed to you, but most were written before you were born, some of them decades before you were born." Daniel shrugged.
"There could have been another Daniel Farthington."
"I thought so too. But the four documents are spread out over one hundred years. And when I went in and read them, they were specifically addressed to you: Daniel Farthington, Blue Springs, Georgia, 2070. They each thanked you for helping them." Daniel looked at him, trying not to get involved, but not being able to help himself.
"It must be a hoax or something . . ."
"I don’t know," Tim said. "Some of them mention that boulder on Laurel Street."
Daniel sighed. "Not that boulder again. Is that what all this is leading up to?"
"I’ve been telling you there’s something strange about that boulder for years! It’s just not natural, somehow."
"I’ve stopped listening, Tim," Daniel said.
"All right, all right," Tim said, desperately trying to regain his attention. "Forget about the boulder. Just look at these letters. There’s something else strange about them. See was doing a routine check on some new files . . . part of my job," he added pointedly, "and these same four letters came up as suddenly available for reading. Apparently, all four people who wrote them left instructions that they not be opened, until this week." Daniel sighed.
"All right, you’ve hooked me," he said. "Give me the letters." Tim set the papers on Daniel’s already cluttered desk.
"This first letter is from a Mrs. Albert Quinn," Tim said, although Daniel was perfectly capable of reading the letter for himself. "Her first name was Faith. Does that name ring a bell?"
"Faith Quinn . . . yes. Originally Faith Hutchinson. She’s the woman Hutchinson park is named after. She’s something of a Blue Springs folk hero, isn’t she?"
"Yeah, from the Civil War," Tim said. "Go on, read it!" Daniel began reading.
June 28, 1899
Dear Mr. Daniel Farthington,
I don’t know whether this letter will reach you or not, but I want to thank you for helping me make the right decision when I was young. I have never forgotten the day the boulder sent me to your time, and you told me I had to marry Albert. You were right, it turns out. When I returned, I found that my father had sent Albert an urgent message, saying that I didn’t want to get married. Albert dropped everything and hurried over. We talked for several hours that afternoon, and he was so gentle and kind and worried about me, that I changed my mind about him.
We were married the following year, as planned, and remained married for 45 years, until he passed away three years ago. Over the first ten years after our marriage, I kept warning him about the coming war, so that when it came, we were prepared. As it turned out, the signs of a war were all there, for anyone willing to look for them. He and I and his best friend, Silas Matthewson, organized the local farmers and drove off the Union soldiers when they attacked. He continued to work defending his farm and Blue Springs, so that when General Sherman came marching through, and Blue Springs was well defended, and was one of the few towns spared by Sherman’s fires. In the years of the Reconstruction, Blue Springs was able to help other communities rebuild, and Albert and Silas worked hardest to rebuild the South.
Had it not been for your words, I would have, indeed, run away from my marriage with Albert, and the disaster you described to us would surely have struck.
A funny thing about Silas Matthewson. I didn’t meet him until the wedding, but he looked very familiar. In fact, he looked an awful lot like our mysterious reader friend. (I often wonder what happened to him, and if he is still reading about us now.)
So, now I am an old women, near the end of a happy life. I have seven children still alive, and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and I am content. If I have one regret, it’s that I will never again be able to see you or my friends, Annalise, Gabrielle, and Elizabeth. But I could not end my life without, at least, thanking you and remembering them. I shall not forget any of you.
Yours truly,
Faith Hutchinson Quinn
Daniel stared at the mysterious letter for a moment longer. "And I suppose the other three documents are from Annalise, Gabrielle, and Elizabeth?"
"That’s right," Tim said. "And you’re gonna love this one. Here’s Annalise’s letter . . ." He pulled another letter from the pile and set it on top. It was written on Bridges Performing Arts Center stationary.
"Hang on," Daniel said. "Are you telling me that this letter was written by Annalise Bridges? The Annalise Bridges? Founder of the Bridges . . ."
" . . . Performing Arts Center, that’s right," Tim finished. "And according to the letter, the center almost didn’t get built. Can you imagine Blue Springs without the Bridges Performing Arts Center?"
"It’s the mainstay of our economy," Daniel said. "Without it . . . this place would be a ghost town." Tim nodded as Daniel began reading.
August 13, 1985
Dear Mr. Farthington,
It feels very strange to be writing a letter to someone who hasn’t been born yet. I’ll admit, this is a first for me. And at my age, I can’t say that a lot. But I have left instructions that this letter not be delivered until 2070. I hope it reaches you. You will probably be receiving letters from the others as well. I’m not sure any of us understand what happened that day, when we were whisked to your time, but it had a profound impact on me, and I never forgot the events of that day, or the help you gave me. You were right about my musical abilities after all, and I thank God that I didn’t just abandon everything, as I most certainly would have done had I not found you.
You should know that I only made the attempt because you showed me what hurt it was causing my friends, as well as myself. I half-expected it not to work, and I would be writing a letter saying, "See? I told you so." Happily I was wrong. Upon my return, I immediately went to Jonathon and told him that I had decided to accept his help and resume my musical career. He was thrilled. He referred me to a friend of his, Dr. Richard Matthewson, (who strangely enough bore an uncanny resemblance to that young man who you called a "Reader.") It was a rough road, but in the end, Dr. Matthewson made me realize that I was suffering from a severe lack of confidence and self-loathing. With his help, and with friends like Jonathon and Evelyn by my side, I came through the ordeal stronger than before. Jonathon and I worked on the plan for the Arts Center together and it was thrilling to see it being built. My career took off again, and for thirty years I toured the world, playing with many of the major orchestras, recording many record albums that have done very well . . . but Blue Springs remained my home. I married and raised my family here, and when I retired publicly, I continued to organize concert seasons at the Center, arranging for world class orchestras and musicians to perform here. The rest I’m sure you already know. I don’t know whether the Center is still around 2070, but I like to hope that it is, and that it is still as successful as it is now. I feel that I’ve been especially blessed, and I owe it all to you. So thank you.
One other note. As 1980 approached, I realized that I had an opportunity to meet one of my fellow travelers. I enjoyed watching the unfolding career of a certain young evangelist who called herself the Angel Gabriel, but I carefully avoided meeting her until the day she touched the boulder. I wrote her a letter, and the next week, we met and had a most interesting talk. The events that had, for her, been only last week, had been forty years ago for myself. We had a wonderful time, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. Neither her friends nor mine understand what we have in common, and we’re not telling.
All my love,
Annalise Bridges
"So it looks like if it hadn’t been for you," Tim said as he finished, "the Bridges Performing Arts Center never would have been built."
"That’s impossible!" Daniel exclaimed. "The Center was built over eighty years before I was born!" Tim shrugged. Daniel sighed. "The next letter is from the Angel Gabriel I suppose?"
"Yeah . . . although it’s signed Gabrielle Rochester."
"That was her real name," Daniel said. "‘Angel Gabriel’ was just the name she adopted for her ministry. Some say she actually believed she was the Angel Gabriel, some say it was just a name. I don’t suppose this letter will solve the mystery?"
"See for yourself," Tim said. Daniel read.
March 5, 2017
Dear Daniel,
I just returned from Annalise Bridges’ Memorial concert. It’s been twenty years now since her death, and I thought it was time to write this letter, thanking you for your help. The events of that day may have changed my life more than my vision did. I need to tell you what happened when I returned. I couldn’t get poor Mr. Giovanni’s murder trial out of my mind, so I headed straight for City Park, after calling my office and canceling my appointments for the afternoon. The first thing I noticed was that City Park was not called "City Park," but "Hutchinson Park." I passed by a plaque which said that the park was named after one, Faith Hutchinson, who, with her husband Albert Quinn, saved Blue Springs from destruction during the Civil War. It warmed my heart, but it also made me wonder what else I would need to know.
But I digress. I found Mr. Giovanni on the park bench and told him who I was and that I wanted to help. I took him to the hospital, where we found that he’d had a mild heart attack. With the level of stress in his life, it was little wonder. I saw to it that he received the medical attention he needed, and I visited him every day. To my surprise, I found that I didn’t have any trouble talking to Roger. I didn’t offer advice or counseling; I just sat with him, and we talked about all sorts of things. Once he recovered, I helped him find a job; I wrote to his wife and persuaded her to come back, and even arranged for Roger to visit his son in jail. These things cost me nothing, and they helped Roger so much. I was so pleased when, three years later, he announced that he was running for mayor of Blue Springs.
Within a month of him being sworn in, Blue Springs was hit with a huge hurricane that wiped out several subdivisions and a portion of downtown. He worked many 24 hour days, arranging shelter for those who needed it, asking for state and federal assistance, meeting with each family who’d lost home. He persuaded most of them to stay in Blue Springs and rebuild, even though many had said they would move, and he saw to it that the rebuilding went quickly and smoothly, and the new houses were better than the old ones. On the strength of that alone, Roger was re-elected four times as mayor, and many say that he was the best mayor Blue Springs has ever seen.
There was a member of Roger’s staff who put in almost as many hours as Roger did, by the name of Robert Matthewson. He looked so much like the Reader who helped us, that I often found myself calling him "Matt." He never understood why.
One of the first things I did after returning was open a letter from none other than the great Annalise Bridges! I learned about her success and the Arts Center, and the following week we had a sort of reunion. We visited each other many times over the next several years. I had hoped that Annalise would live long enough so that we could both meet Elizabeth, but it was not to be. Annalise passed away in 1997, and I was flattered when she asked me to do her funeral. I still miss her.
Once I knew Elizabeth to have returned from 2070, I went to see her. We still visit each other often . . . but I think I’ll let Elizabeth tell you how she’s doing in her letter.
So now, I close this letter, looking back on the good you helped me to do for this little town. I’ll always remember insisting that I was the Angel Gabriel . . . but you always called me by my given name, Gabrielle Rochester. And that is, after all, who I am.
Yours in Christ,
Gabrielle "Angel Gabriel" Rochester
"Now wait," Daniel said. "Mayor Giovanni was on trial for murder? I’m sure there’s nothing of that in the records. Mayor Giovanni’s difficulties and the Angel Gabriel’s help are part of Blue Springs folklore . . . but there has never been any mention of a murder trial. I wonder who she is supposed to have murdered?"
Tim was smiling. "I thought that might interest you." Daniel hated to admit it . . . but Tim had found something good here.
"Let’s see what Elizabeth has to say," Daniel said, pulling out the last letter. "This was written just a few months before I was born."
September 19, 2028
Dear Mr. Farthington,
This should be the most recent of the four letters thanking you for the help you gave so many years ago. I was with Gabrielle when she wrote hers, and she was with Annalise when she wrote hers, and I have no doubt that there is one from Faith somewhere. I hope they all reach you, or you will never know what you do for us, and for Blue Springs.
After I returned, I thought at first that I was in the wrong time. Blue Springs was much bigger and busier than I remembered. But I found the Wilson’s home in the same place, and I realized I was back in my own time. It didn’t take me long to learn about Annalise’s Performing Arts Center and Gabrielle’s church. And that Roger Giovanni, the man who Gabrielle was supposed to have helped, was mayor of the city.
When I returned home, I confronted the Wilsons, who admitted that they had asked for my parents to come. Then I talked to my parents at the Blue Springs Hotel and we said a lot of things that needed to be said. We spoke late into the night, until I smelled smoke and remembered the fire. I pulled the alarm and woke Bradley Matthewson, the hotel manager. We were able to contain the fire to the kitchen, which was a total loss, but it didn’t spread and no one was killed.
Mr. Matthewson looked very familiar to me, incidentally. I kept wanting to call him "Matt" after that strange boy who read our story. I wonder whatever happened to him.
After that, my parents and I made a truce of sorts, but I decided to stay in Blue Springs. After meeting you, and getting to know Faith, Annalise, and Gabrielle, I had grown quite fond of the city. The irony is, if Blue Springs has been this large when I first arrived, I never would have stopped here. I was looking for a small town. But to whatever twist of fate brought me here, I am grateful. My husband and I eventually built a house on Hutchinson Street in a subdivision called Quinn Acres, and we have been quite content. Gabrielle was a frequent guest, and since my house is near Faith’s old plantation, and since we often played recordings of Annalise’s music, it was almost as if the four of us were back together again. Gabrielle passed away just last year, but of course, her memory lives on inside me always. Those times gave me much pleasure, and I thank you for allowing us to save Blue Springs from that dreadful ghost town we saw in 2070.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Porpington-Potts
Daniel finished reading and looked up. "So, what do you make of all this?" Tim asked.
"I’m certainly mystified," Daniel admitted, idly picking up a pen and tapping it against his chin, a habit he had developed when something puzzled him. "It seems I did something I have no memory of. Either that or four random women had the same dream, which happened to involve me, a man they would never have heard of. And what’s with all these Matthewsons popping up everywhere? Relatives of yours, Tim?"
"I’d have to check the first three, but that last one, Bradley Matthewson, was my great-grandfather. Grandpa used to tell us stories about when he was a kid, and there was a fire that would have wiped out the town, if it hadn’t been for . . ." he paused, then suddenly remembered. "Elizabeth Porpington-Potts. That’s why that name sounds familiar! She was the hero of the day. Grandpa told me if it hadn’t been for her, the family would have died in the fire, and I wouldn’t even be here."
"Interesting," said Daniel. "And the other Matthewsons?"
"Well, like I said, I’d have to look into it, but it’s very likely that they’re my ancestors. The Matthewsons have been in Blue Springs since it was founded . . . not that you would know anything about that, being a newcomer to the community."
"Tim, I was born and raised in Blue Springs . . ."
"But your family didn’t come here until recently. Thus, you are a newcomer."
Daniel sighed, and flipped his pen onto the desk. "Whatever." He looked at his watch. "It’s time to call it a day."
"Oh, I almost forgot," Tim said. He pulled out a stack of manilla envelopes. "Once I gained access to the letters, there were instructions that led me to these." He pulled the papers out of the envelopes. "I ran an analysis of the pages. They’re definitely printed on paper from this office, but there are records with these that prove that they have been in storage for a long, long time. This one," he said, holding up what was clearly the oldest stack of papers, "have been in a safe deposit box in a bank since 1901."
"This office didn’t even exist in 1901. Let me see those." He took the papers and thumbed through them. "These appear to be narratives . . . with the women as characters . . . and the mystery deepens."
"I’m telling you," Tim said. "It’s that boulder."
"Not that boulder . . . what is it with you?"
"You read the letters!" Tim insisted. "The boulder brought them to you somehow, you talked to them, they went back, things changed. Ms. Porpington-Potts said this was a ghost town!"
"But I have never met any of these women, and Blue Springs has never been anything even remotely close to a ghost town." Tim sighed. Logic had refuted him again.
"Well, how about this–?"
"Enough, Tim," Daniel said, waving off whatever idea he had this time. "I’m going home. If I keep thinking about this, I’ll get a headache." He picked up the papers, and started out the door.
"But, if you–"
"I’m leaving the office now, Tim," Daniel said.
"Look, maybe–"
"I’m walking out the door and going home!"
"Daniel, I don’t think you understand . . ." Tim ran after Daniel Farthington’s disappearing figure, knowing that there was some sort of explanation . . . but somehow, not quite being able to formulate it.
***
EPILOGUE
Hutchinson Park, Blue Springs, Georgia, that evening.
Elizabeth Porpington-Potts watched the emerging stars from her park bench. Large as the city had become, the lights somehow didn’t interfere with the night sky from the park. Decades had passed since her youth, and the old woman still loved watching the night sky.
She heard voices. She looked over toward them, and smiled. Two men were walking by from the area of the Archives. One was talking animatedly, one was shaking his head and sighing. Elizabeth had a feeling she knew what they were talking about.
The men separated, going to their individual homes. The older man walked passed the park. He was just as Elizabeth remembered him . . . and he had no idea what he had done.
Daniel Farthington happened to glance over to where Elizabeth was sitting. The old woman smiled, and gave him a small wave. Daniel paused and looked at her. For a moment . . . a brief moment . . . he almost seemed to recognize her. Then he gave his own awkward wave, and continued on down the road.
Elizabeth smiled . . . no, he didn’t need to remember. As long as she knew . . . and as long as the others had known . . . and now he reason to look into it. Annalise and Matt had been right about those letters. The four women were certainly on Mr. Farthington’s mind now.
Elizabeth’s eyes turned back to the sky. As she watched, a small streak of light sped through the darkness. The old woman smiled, and closed her eyes.
Thank you . . .
***
The end.
"What's next?"
***
Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 117,843, Home of the Bridges Performing Arts Center, the Interlochen of the South
Year 2070.
"Daniel? Hey, Daniel, hold up a minute!" Daniel Farthington sighed. It was that kid again . . . he had come to work for Daniel recently. He was bright, energetic, and enthusiastic . . . sometimes a little too enthusiastic. At the moment, he was enthusiastically chasing Daniel down the hall. Daniel kept walking . . . but not too quickly. Wearing though he was, the kid had a knack for finding things, and he usually found something interesting.
"Daniel?" the boy caught up with him. He was a nondescript young man, with a mop of brown hair, crooked glasses, and an excited look on his face. He was not a particularly imposing figure, yet he always made Daniel nervous when he came into a room. This was why. "Listen, Daniel, I found something that you’ve got to see." He had practically run down the hall; Daniel could tell by his shortness of breath and his flushed face, though that may just have been from excitement. He was clutching several pieces of paper in his hand.
"Is it that thing you’ve been obsessed over, instead of doing your job, by any chance?" Daniel asked.
"I think, once you hear this, you’ll agree that it’s important," he said.
"All right, Tim," Daniel said with resignation . . . plus, he really was curious now. "Come into my office and show me."
They made their way to Daniel’s somewhat cluttered cubicle. Daniel never had been very good at keeping his work area organized, but at least he had some idea where everything was. Usually.
"All right," Tim was saying. "Well, I was playing around with the database during my lunch hour . . ."
"Tim, how many times have I told you that the database is not a computer game for your amusement?"
"I know, but listen. I put in your name, just to see what I would find . . ."
"I won’t even ask why," Daniel said. "Surely you’re not spying on me?"
"Would you just listen?" Daniel smiled, and shut up. "It came up with the usual stuff . . . birth record, school transactions, employment records, career accomplishments, awards . . . mostly pretty boring."
"Well, I’m glad you think of my life as such."
Tim kept going as though he hadn’t heard him. "But there were four items that were very odd."
"Really? How so?"
"They’re all addressed to you, but most were written before you were born, some of them decades before you were born." Daniel shrugged.
"There could have been another Daniel Farthington."
"I thought so too. But the four documents are spread out over one hundred years. And when I went in and read them, they were specifically addressed to you: Daniel Farthington, Blue Springs, Georgia, 2070. They each thanked you for helping them." Daniel looked at him, trying not to get involved, but not being able to help himself.
"It must be a hoax or something . . ."
"I don’t know," Tim said. "Some of them mention that boulder on Laurel Street."
Daniel sighed. "Not that boulder again. Is that what all this is leading up to?"
"I’ve been telling you there’s something strange about that boulder for years! It’s just not natural, somehow."
"I’ve stopped listening, Tim," Daniel said.
"All right, all right," Tim said, desperately trying to regain his attention. "Forget about the boulder. Just look at these letters. There’s something else strange about them. See was doing a routine check on some new files . . . part of my job," he added pointedly, "and these same four letters came up as suddenly available for reading. Apparently, all four people who wrote them left instructions that they not be opened, until this week." Daniel sighed.
"All right, you’ve hooked me," he said. "Give me the letters." Tim set the papers on Daniel’s already cluttered desk.
"This first letter is from a Mrs. Albert Quinn," Tim said, although Daniel was perfectly capable of reading the letter for himself. "Her first name was Faith. Does that name ring a bell?"
"Faith Quinn . . . yes. Originally Faith Hutchinson. She’s the woman Hutchinson park is named after. She’s something of a Blue Springs folk hero, isn’t she?"
"Yeah, from the Civil War," Tim said. "Go on, read it!" Daniel began reading.
June 28, 1899
Dear Mr. Daniel Farthington,
I don’t know whether this letter will reach you or not, but I want to thank you for helping me make the right decision when I was young. I have never forgotten the day the boulder sent me to your time, and you told me I had to marry Albert. You were right, it turns out. When I returned, I found that my father had sent Albert an urgent message, saying that I didn’t want to get married. Albert dropped everything and hurried over. We talked for several hours that afternoon, and he was so gentle and kind and worried about me, that I changed my mind about him.
We were married the following year, as planned, and remained married for 45 years, until he passed away three years ago. Over the first ten years after our marriage, I kept warning him about the coming war, so that when it came, we were prepared. As it turned out, the signs of a war were all there, for anyone willing to look for them. He and I and his best friend, Silas Matthewson, organized the local farmers and drove off the Union soldiers when they attacked. He continued to work defending his farm and Blue Springs, so that when General Sherman came marching through, and Blue Springs was well defended, and was one of the few towns spared by Sherman’s fires. In the years of the Reconstruction, Blue Springs was able to help other communities rebuild, and Albert and Silas worked hardest to rebuild the South.
Had it not been for your words, I would have, indeed, run away from my marriage with Albert, and the disaster you described to us would surely have struck.
A funny thing about Silas Matthewson. I didn’t meet him until the wedding, but he looked very familiar. In fact, he looked an awful lot like our mysterious reader friend. (I often wonder what happened to him, and if he is still reading about us now.)
So, now I am an old women, near the end of a happy life. I have seven children still alive, and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and I am content. If I have one regret, it’s that I will never again be able to see you or my friends, Annalise, Gabrielle, and Elizabeth. But I could not end my life without, at least, thanking you and remembering them. I shall not forget any of you.
Yours truly,
Faith Hutchinson Quinn
Daniel stared at the mysterious letter for a moment longer. "And I suppose the other three documents are from Annalise, Gabrielle, and Elizabeth?"
"That’s right," Tim said. "And you’re gonna love this one. Here’s Annalise’s letter . . ." He pulled another letter from the pile and set it on top. It was written on Bridges Performing Arts Center stationary.
"Hang on," Daniel said. "Are you telling me that this letter was written by Annalise Bridges? The Annalise Bridges? Founder of the Bridges . . ."
" . . . Performing Arts Center, that’s right," Tim finished. "And according to the letter, the center almost didn’t get built. Can you imagine Blue Springs without the Bridges Performing Arts Center?"
"It’s the mainstay of our economy," Daniel said. "Without it . . . this place would be a ghost town." Tim nodded as Daniel began reading.
August 13, 1985
Dear Mr. Farthington,
It feels very strange to be writing a letter to someone who hasn’t been born yet. I’ll admit, this is a first for me. And at my age, I can’t say that a lot. But I have left instructions that this letter not be delivered until 2070. I hope it reaches you. You will probably be receiving letters from the others as well. I’m not sure any of us understand what happened that day, when we were whisked to your time, but it had a profound impact on me, and I never forgot the events of that day, or the help you gave me. You were right about my musical abilities after all, and I thank God that I didn’t just abandon everything, as I most certainly would have done had I not found you.
You should know that I only made the attempt because you showed me what hurt it was causing my friends, as well as myself. I half-expected it not to work, and I would be writing a letter saying, "See? I told you so." Happily I was wrong. Upon my return, I immediately went to Jonathon and told him that I had decided to accept his help and resume my musical career. He was thrilled. He referred me to a friend of his, Dr. Richard Matthewson, (who strangely enough bore an uncanny resemblance to that young man who you called a "Reader.") It was a rough road, but in the end, Dr. Matthewson made me realize that I was suffering from a severe lack of confidence and self-loathing. With his help, and with friends like Jonathon and Evelyn by my side, I came through the ordeal stronger than before. Jonathon and I worked on the plan for the Arts Center together and it was thrilling to see it being built. My career took off again, and for thirty years I toured the world, playing with many of the major orchestras, recording many record albums that have done very well . . . but Blue Springs remained my home. I married and raised my family here, and when I retired publicly, I continued to organize concert seasons at the Center, arranging for world class orchestras and musicians to perform here. The rest I’m sure you already know. I don’t know whether the Center is still around 2070, but I like to hope that it is, and that it is still as successful as it is now. I feel that I’ve been especially blessed, and I owe it all to you. So thank you.
One other note. As 1980 approached, I realized that I had an opportunity to meet one of my fellow travelers. I enjoyed watching the unfolding career of a certain young evangelist who called herself the Angel Gabriel, but I carefully avoided meeting her until the day she touched the boulder. I wrote her a letter, and the next week, we met and had a most interesting talk. The events that had, for her, been only last week, had been forty years ago for myself. We had a wonderful time, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. Neither her friends nor mine understand what we have in common, and we’re not telling.
All my love,
Annalise Bridges
"So it looks like if it hadn’t been for you," Tim said as he finished, "the Bridges Performing Arts Center never would have been built."
"That’s impossible!" Daniel exclaimed. "The Center was built over eighty years before I was born!" Tim shrugged. Daniel sighed. "The next letter is from the Angel Gabriel I suppose?"
"Yeah . . . although it’s signed Gabrielle Rochester."
"That was her real name," Daniel said. "‘Angel Gabriel’ was just the name she adopted for her ministry. Some say she actually believed she was the Angel Gabriel, some say it was just a name. I don’t suppose this letter will solve the mystery?"
"See for yourself," Tim said. Daniel read.
March 5, 2017
Dear Daniel,
I just returned from Annalise Bridges’ Memorial concert. It’s been twenty years now since her death, and I thought it was time to write this letter, thanking you for your help. The events of that day may have changed my life more than my vision did. I need to tell you what happened when I returned. I couldn’t get poor Mr. Giovanni’s murder trial out of my mind, so I headed straight for City Park, after calling my office and canceling my appointments for the afternoon. The first thing I noticed was that City Park was not called "City Park," but "Hutchinson Park." I passed by a plaque which said that the park was named after one, Faith Hutchinson, who, with her husband Albert Quinn, saved Blue Springs from destruction during the Civil War. It warmed my heart, but it also made me wonder what else I would need to know.
But I digress. I found Mr. Giovanni on the park bench and told him who I was and that I wanted to help. I took him to the hospital, where we found that he’d had a mild heart attack. With the level of stress in his life, it was little wonder. I saw to it that he received the medical attention he needed, and I visited him every day. To my surprise, I found that I didn’t have any trouble talking to Roger. I didn’t offer advice or counseling; I just sat with him, and we talked about all sorts of things. Once he recovered, I helped him find a job; I wrote to his wife and persuaded her to come back, and even arranged for Roger to visit his son in jail. These things cost me nothing, and they helped Roger so much. I was so pleased when, three years later, he announced that he was running for mayor of Blue Springs.
Within a month of him being sworn in, Blue Springs was hit with a huge hurricane that wiped out several subdivisions and a portion of downtown. He worked many 24 hour days, arranging shelter for those who needed it, asking for state and federal assistance, meeting with each family who’d lost home. He persuaded most of them to stay in Blue Springs and rebuild, even though many had said they would move, and he saw to it that the rebuilding went quickly and smoothly, and the new houses were better than the old ones. On the strength of that alone, Roger was re-elected four times as mayor, and many say that he was the best mayor Blue Springs has ever seen.
There was a member of Roger’s staff who put in almost as many hours as Roger did, by the name of Robert Matthewson. He looked so much like the Reader who helped us, that I often found myself calling him "Matt." He never understood why.
One of the first things I did after returning was open a letter from none other than the great Annalise Bridges! I learned about her success and the Arts Center, and the following week we had a sort of reunion. We visited each other many times over the next several years. I had hoped that Annalise would live long enough so that we could both meet Elizabeth, but it was not to be. Annalise passed away in 1997, and I was flattered when she asked me to do her funeral. I still miss her.
Once I knew Elizabeth to have returned from 2070, I went to see her. We still visit each other often . . . but I think I’ll let Elizabeth tell you how she’s doing in her letter.
So now, I close this letter, looking back on the good you helped me to do for this little town. I’ll always remember insisting that I was the Angel Gabriel . . . but you always called me by my given name, Gabrielle Rochester. And that is, after all, who I am.
Yours in Christ,
Gabrielle "Angel Gabriel" Rochester
"Now wait," Daniel said. "Mayor Giovanni was on trial for murder? I’m sure there’s nothing of that in the records. Mayor Giovanni’s difficulties and the Angel Gabriel’s help are part of Blue Springs folklore . . . but there has never been any mention of a murder trial. I wonder who she is supposed to have murdered?"
Tim was smiling. "I thought that might interest you." Daniel hated to admit it . . . but Tim had found something good here.
"Let’s see what Elizabeth has to say," Daniel said, pulling out the last letter. "This was written just a few months before I was born."
September 19, 2028
Dear Mr. Farthington,
This should be the most recent of the four letters thanking you for the help you gave so many years ago. I was with Gabrielle when she wrote hers, and she was with Annalise when she wrote hers, and I have no doubt that there is one from Faith somewhere. I hope they all reach you, or you will never know what you do for us, and for Blue Springs.
After I returned, I thought at first that I was in the wrong time. Blue Springs was much bigger and busier than I remembered. But I found the Wilson’s home in the same place, and I realized I was back in my own time. It didn’t take me long to learn about Annalise’s Performing Arts Center and Gabrielle’s church. And that Roger Giovanni, the man who Gabrielle was supposed to have helped, was mayor of the city.
When I returned home, I confronted the Wilsons, who admitted that they had asked for my parents to come. Then I talked to my parents at the Blue Springs Hotel and we said a lot of things that needed to be said. We spoke late into the night, until I smelled smoke and remembered the fire. I pulled the alarm and woke Bradley Matthewson, the hotel manager. We were able to contain the fire to the kitchen, which was a total loss, but it didn’t spread and no one was killed.
Mr. Matthewson looked very familiar to me, incidentally. I kept wanting to call him "Matt" after that strange boy who read our story. I wonder whatever happened to him.
After that, my parents and I made a truce of sorts, but I decided to stay in Blue Springs. After meeting you, and getting to know Faith, Annalise, and Gabrielle, I had grown quite fond of the city. The irony is, if Blue Springs has been this large when I first arrived, I never would have stopped here. I was looking for a small town. But to whatever twist of fate brought me here, I am grateful. My husband and I eventually built a house on Hutchinson Street in a subdivision called Quinn Acres, and we have been quite content. Gabrielle was a frequent guest, and since my house is near Faith’s old plantation, and since we often played recordings of Annalise’s music, it was almost as if the four of us were back together again. Gabrielle passed away just last year, but of course, her memory lives on inside me always. Those times gave me much pleasure, and I thank you for allowing us to save Blue Springs from that dreadful ghost town we saw in 2070.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Porpington-Potts
Daniel finished reading and looked up. "So, what do you make of all this?" Tim asked.
"I’m certainly mystified," Daniel admitted, idly picking up a pen and tapping it against his chin, a habit he had developed when something puzzled him. "It seems I did something I have no memory of. Either that or four random women had the same dream, which happened to involve me, a man they would never have heard of. And what’s with all these Matthewsons popping up everywhere? Relatives of yours, Tim?"
"I’d have to check the first three, but that last one, Bradley Matthewson, was my great-grandfather. Grandpa used to tell us stories about when he was a kid, and there was a fire that would have wiped out the town, if it hadn’t been for . . ." he paused, then suddenly remembered. "Elizabeth Porpington-Potts. That’s why that name sounds familiar! She was the hero of the day. Grandpa told me if it hadn’t been for her, the family would have died in the fire, and I wouldn’t even be here."
"Interesting," said Daniel. "And the other Matthewsons?"
"Well, like I said, I’d have to look into it, but it’s very likely that they’re my ancestors. The Matthewsons have been in Blue Springs since it was founded . . . not that you would know anything about that, being a newcomer to the community."
"Tim, I was born and raised in Blue Springs . . ."
"But your family didn’t come here until recently. Thus, you are a newcomer."
Daniel sighed, and flipped his pen onto the desk. "Whatever." He looked at his watch. "It’s time to call it a day."
"Oh, I almost forgot," Tim said. He pulled out a stack of manilla envelopes. "Once I gained access to the letters, there were instructions that led me to these." He pulled the papers out of the envelopes. "I ran an analysis of the pages. They’re definitely printed on paper from this office, but there are records with these that prove that they have been in storage for a long, long time. This one," he said, holding up what was clearly the oldest stack of papers, "have been in a safe deposit box in a bank since 1901."
"This office didn’t even exist in 1901. Let me see those." He took the papers and thumbed through them. "These appear to be narratives . . . with the women as characters . . . and the mystery deepens."
"I’m telling you," Tim said. "It’s that boulder."
"Not that boulder . . . what is it with you?"
"You read the letters!" Tim insisted. "The boulder brought them to you somehow, you talked to them, they went back, things changed. Ms. Porpington-Potts said this was a ghost town!"
"But I have never met any of these women, and Blue Springs has never been anything even remotely close to a ghost town." Tim sighed. Logic had refuted him again.
"Well, how about this–?"
"Enough, Tim," Daniel said, waving off whatever idea he had this time. "I’m going home. If I keep thinking about this, I’ll get a headache." He picked up the papers, and started out the door.
"But, if you–"
"I’m leaving the office now, Tim," Daniel said.
"Look, maybe–"
"I’m walking out the door and going home!"
"Daniel, I don’t think you understand . . ." Tim ran after Daniel Farthington’s disappearing figure, knowing that there was some sort of explanation . . . but somehow, not quite being able to formulate it.
***
EPILOGUE
Hutchinson Park, Blue Springs, Georgia, that evening.
Elizabeth Porpington-Potts watched the emerging stars from her park bench. Large as the city had become, the lights somehow didn’t interfere with the night sky from the park. Decades had passed since her youth, and the old woman still loved watching the night sky.
She heard voices. She looked over toward them, and smiled. Two men were walking by from the area of the Archives. One was talking animatedly, one was shaking his head and sighing. Elizabeth had a feeling she knew what they were talking about.
The men separated, going to their individual homes. The older man walked passed the park. He was just as Elizabeth remembered him . . . and he had no idea what he had done.
Daniel Farthington happened to glance over to where Elizabeth was sitting. The old woman smiled, and gave him a small wave. Daniel paused and looked at her. For a moment . . . a brief moment . . . he almost seemed to recognize her. Then he gave his own awkward wave, and continued on down the road.
Elizabeth smiled . . . no, he didn’t need to remember. As long as she knew . . . and as long as the others had known . . . and now he reason to look into it. Annalise and Matt had been right about those letters. The four women were certainly on Mr. Farthington’s mind now.
Elizabeth’s eyes turned back to the sky. As she watched, a small streak of light sped through the darkness. The old woman smiled, and closed her eyes.
Thank you . . .
***
The end.
"What's next?"
posted by nonentity | 7:52 PM
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