The Later Journeys - 10. No Room at the Inn

                    
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What was I afraid of, exactly? A few scenarios were playing in my head.

First, what if we got there and found a busload of tourists? I could picture kids crowding around and cell phones snapping pictures. “Selfies.” Poor Ben. We wouldn’t have time to prepare him for that. I guess we could see a bit up the road, and if we saw people, give some sort of alert. Or just turn around and go back toward the farm.

Barring crowds, what if the inn looked perfectly normal, just the way he had last seen it, and he wanted to go in and talk to the manager about his room reservation? Sure, he knew that wouldn’t be possible, but if he tried to do that, would he be laughed at?

What if the manager indulged him and let him tour the facility?

What if he suddenly snapped and demanded we figure out how to get him back to the 1700s? Something we had zero idea of how to do, considering that we weren’t even sure how we’d managed to get him here?

In all the time we’d been preparing for this, the unknowns hadn’t bothered me nearly as much as they did now. I could tell Trevor was anxious about it, too.

All we could do was wait until the inn came into view.

We continued through the quiet morning. The road curved to the left, still with no paving. Then there was a bump, and out the window I saw the cobblestones and asphalt. Along the road were small reflective lights. The front of the inn was coming up alongside, on the right -- my left.

Warren reined the horses to a stop. They stood, placid and unconcerned, their tails swishing.

We all stared out the window. What we saw was the front door, but not quite as we’d remembered it. Through the glass was nothing beyond faint daylight, coming through the windows that faced the parking lot.

And the lot was empty.

The lobby was empty.

Propped against the wall were two signs. One was a large square of plywood with letters burned into it to simulate a rustic look: The Pine Branch Inn, Est. 2019. Next to it was a larger, more elaborate piece of wrought-iron scrollwork that seemed to depict a horse standing at the foot of a mountain. The Flatiron Inn, it read. No establishing date. But the iron was noticeably rusty.

A mild gust of wind blew some dead leaves past the coach. They joined a considerable pile at the foot of each sign. The bottom-most leaves were wet and muddy. I looked at Ben, trying to gauge his mood and produce a corresponding expression.

“I was here, just evenings ago,” he said in a low voice. “I looked through a window and saw patrons seated in chairs. There were lights in there, and out here in front. It was open. It was busy, despite the late hour. Could it have closed so utterly in such a short time?”

I was at a loss for words. Ben Franklin would, without a doubt, have been mightily perturbed to behold such a sight -- indubitable proof that something had profoundly changed, beyond the normal course of time. An actor, however...Damn, I thought. This guy had better get a freaking Oscar. And Gerry had better be paying him a fortune.

I caught Trevor’s eye and could see his thoughts were similar to mine. We looked at Ben again. His complexion looked ashy grey, his lips had no color, his nostrils flared and his eyes were wide with distress...and shiny. He was trying to hold back tears. I had no doubt that if either Trevor or I had placed our fingers over his wrist, his pulse would have been galloping. No one, but no one, can fake that.

Warren leaned in from his perch. “How we doing?” Outside and inside the carriage was a palpable silence.

“Let’s go on back to the house now,” I suggested, not wanting to look at Ben.

“All righty,” said Warren, urging the horses forward once again, to where the drive curved, to lead us back to our dirt road.

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