Another Place, Another Time – Inspired by Harris Burdick

For two years, I’ve been a member of a weekly writing group, my writing posse, and this quartet helped me weather the pandemic, keep me writing on those days when I wasn’t up for it, and experiment with new forms that I’d never tried before. On two separate occasions, we used the amazing The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris van Allsburg as our weekly prompt. Harris Burdick is a great tool for writers of all ages – twelve full page drawings, a title, and a single line of text. Get inspired and see where it leads.

The following piece was the result of “Another Place, Another Time” and its single line, “If there was an answer, he’d find it there.” The result may have legs and lead to a children’s or YA book. I’m still thinking about it. And by the way, If you don’t have a copy of Harris Burdick yet, I encourage you to get one today.

PS – the photo above is NOT from Harris Burdick as I don’t have the rights to use it.

“Will you be done soon?” Delilah asked.

Peter kept his head down and focused on the wrench and bolts he’d found buried in a bucket in the back of the old shed and did his best to avoid being distracted by the girl with the sausage curls and petticoats floating nearby. The bolt tightened and the fourth and final wheel, made of a large wooden spool he’d discovered in an empty lot, was attached. The boy stepped back to survey his handiwork.

The packing pallet, which he’d dragged four blocks from the back of a convenience store, was now fitted with four cable spool wheels and an old porch rail haphazardly nailed to the back. It wouldn’t win any races, but it wasn’t built for speed. He wasn’t going to need to go fast. At least, he didn’t think so. He just needed to go.

“Is it ready? Is it ready? Can we leave now?”

Another figure had appeared on the far side of the wooden cart.

“No, Etienne,” Peter sighed. “It’s not done yet.”

The newcomer, clad in beret and backpack, looked disappointed. “But you said we would be going.”

“Yes, we will, but it’s not ready yet.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not ready yet.”

Peter grabbed the rope attached to the front of the cart and began to pull, dragging it out of the shed. It scraped and bumped, wheels grinding on the ground and gravel. Finally, it was outside.

“I’m sorry we can’t help,” remarked Delilah.

He continued to ignore her and bent to the task of dragging his conveyance closer to the water. The sun was approaching the horizon. Dusk would be upon him soon and with dusk would come the tracks. He needed to have the cart ready. Finally, with sweat beading on his forehead, he stopped. This was close enough.

He returned to the shed and carried out the poles and ropes and his mother’s old tablecloth. These, he lay next to the cart before going back to the shed and retrieving two small wooden fruit crates, which he placed toward the front of the cart.

Etienne drifted by, translucent still.

“Will it work, Peter?”

Peter shrugged. “We’ll see. I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t be late, Peter,” Delilah said, a worried tinge in her soft voice.

“I won’t be.”

Peter trudged up the small hill, leaving the cart and shed behind. His house was quiet, only a single light in the kitchen. The peeling wooden screen door creaked as he walked inside.

“Dinner will be ready, soon, Peter,” his mother called out.

“Okay,” and he climbed the stairs toward the bedrooms. He didn’t bother turning on the light in his room. He was all packed and knew exactly what he needed for this journey. He stripped off his dirty t-shirt and shorts and replaced them with his blue sailor’s shirt and white duck trousers, the outfit he knew – knew – was the right thing to wear for this trip. He picked up the small leather suitcase, a legacy of his father, and left his room.

But he didn’t go back downstairs. Instead he walked down the hall to another room, one that was always kept dark. Amanda’s room. He stared at it, seeing the dolls and horses and the wooden castle their father had built for her so many years ago.

“No daughter of mine is going to have just a dollhouse. She’s going to have a doll castle,” Peter remembered him saying that Christmas morning.
But now it was quiet and mom never came in here. She never mentioned Amanda or Peter’s father. When he’d asked her about one or the other of them, mom just got a puzzled look on her face as if she’d never heard of them before. When he’d dragged her to the room, she simply shook her head and replied that she wished the people who had lived here before had finished clearing out their belongings.

Peter walked into the room and picked up a winged horse from the bedside table. He gently blew the dust off it, returned to the door, opened his suitcase, and put it inside, gently nestled among his sweater, his compass, two comic books, a bag of Cracker Jacks, and his telescope. Then he headed downstairs.

“Don’t be gone too long, honey,” his mother called out again. “I made beef casserole. It will be done in just a little bit.”

“Okay, mom,” he replied and walked down the stairs. He slipped a bit on the grassy slope, and carried his suitcase to the cart.

The sun was almost at the horizon when he arrived.

“Hurry, Peter, hurry,” Etienne urged. “It’s almost time.”

Peter stowed his suitcase on the back of the cart and lifted the mast, an old flagpole scrounged from behind the community center, into place. The sail and spars hung at its base, waiting.

The sun kissed the horizon and then the tracks were there, gossamer thin, resting on a railbed of glittering stones, and stretching out into the sunset mists. Far in the distance, shimmering as in a heat haze, Peter saw the island appear. Shrouded trees and shoreline where none had been before now waited for him. The castle, with a single light in the tallest tower, called to him.

The cart was right where it needed to be and he pushed it forward. He couldn’t say for certain but he was pretty sure the tracks shifted slightly, becoming a bit more narrow to fit the width of the packing pallet and the cable spool wheels.

He looked back at his house where his mother fussed in the kitchen. He wondered if he would be forgotten as well, his tin soldiers packed away with no thought of where they came from, simply leftovers from the previous owners.

“Peter, oh do hurry! Sunset won’t last forever,” cried Delilah, who had grown more opaque as the sunset began.

He stepped up onto the pallet. Delilah settled herself onto one of the fruit crates in the front. With a sigh of relief, Etienne sat on the back rail.
Peter put on his sailor’s cap and began to raise the spars.

“Let’s go find your sister,” said his father, fading into view as the sun blazed crimson. He smiled at Peter, clapped his old-fashioned bowler hat to his head, and took his seat beside Delilah.

The tablecloth sail rose to the peak of the mast. It bellied, filled by the ghost wind, and the cart rolled forward along the tracks, over the water, toward the island. If there was an answer, he’d find it there.