NOT AS OLD AS SOME THINGS

Maximus and Joimus went into their living room to speak privately. "We can't just turn him out with no place to go," she stated.

"I agree," Maximus nodded. The man, whoever he was, had been on his property, seemed to think he had always been on his property, and it was Maximus himself who had found him and brought him to his house. That was enough for him to feel that watchful concern that came so naturally to him. Besides, the man had been in chains, had lost everything that anchored him in life. Maximus could relate to that.

"The guest room. I think we should let him stay there for the time being. He looks like he needs some care."

"I thought you'd say that," she smiled, standing on tiptoe, lightly kissing his lips.

When they told Alistair, he offered to drive back to the mill and bring some pajamas and clothes for the man, who was much slimmer than the General. Their "guest" had fallen back asleep and they let him lie there on the couch until Alistair returned half an hour later. He was still quite groggy as Maximus and Alistair got him up the stairs. Joimus closed the door so the two men could get the strange arrival in pajamas. He didn't seem entirely aware of what they were doing and was soon sound asleep and tucked under the covers.

"I expect rest is the best thing for him right now," Alistair commented. "Looks like the reverend has been through quite an ordeal. That may explain his loss of memory."

Joimus was already on her computer doing a search for a Reverend Cortland Wells. She found nothing. "He didn't sound Aussie to me...from the little he said," she offered.

"Not to me, either," Alistair, in his English accent, agreed.

Joimus was the only American in the room at the moment. "I think I detected a soft hint of Southern in his voice. He's got to be from the United States, but I searched for him in the records there, too, and he simply doesn't exist."

"Perhaps he himself is not Wells," Maximus ventured.

"I somehow feel like he is," Alistair replied. "I just...do."

"A man out of his time," Maximus breathed.

"Why would you say that?" Alistair asked, looking curiously at the General.

"His clothing, something about him." Maximus looked at his wife, thinking of the rust-colored cape in the cedar-lined wardrobe in their bedroom. She smiled lovingly back at him.

"His clothing surely does add to the puzzles around him," Alistair nodded. His eye found the small New Testament he'd lain on an end table by the couch and he picked it up, looking for a copyright date. "1881," he read. "It's quite old."

"Not as old as some things," Maximus replied, his voice very low.

"Could he be some sort of...re-enactor, do you think?" Alistair asked, his brow wrinkling.

"I doubt that."  Maximus turned, looking up the staircase, the protectiveness in him growing by the moment.