1
 

Huddled in this deep, dark cave, like a crypt, my hands trembled as I wrestled with fate. It was I who placed the Bell Medallion into its final resting place here in this remote cavern carved deep within the foothills of eastern Tennessee, where it will rest for eternity.

Throughout my life many stories had I heard of the secrets of this sacred Bell and its evil twin, the gold Medallion. For years I wondered why the two were separated, as if to deliberately break a spell for the protection of all humankind not sufficiently wise to use the Bell Medallionís power.  The story is that sometime in the 13th century a brotherhood of alchemists in Romania forged the Bell Medallion and with it conceived a great power ­ dominion of over time, a way to travel through time invisibly and unencumbered, to change the course of war, the course of history. Thus it became the alchemistsí mission to track it through time, always reaching for its power, which always eluded them. They carried an elixir that granted them immortality, enabling their eternal quest. Wherever the Bell Medallion traveled, so did they. And travel the Bell did, bringing wealth to its possessors, but also war -- a war within one's self, and a world of war around him.

As centuries and kingdoms violently came and went, the Bell Medallion made its way by carriage and merchant ship across Europe and the Mediterranean, passed like a baton through the events we now call history. The Bell and Medallion were separated from each other at the peak of Nazi power in Europe, their combined power rendered useless for the moment. At that point the Bell Medallion was lost to history until its discovery inside a wall by a Russian Cossack several years later. He sold it in Kiev to a gypsy for mere pennies, and the gypsy took it to safety into Romania, where a noble line had harbored its mystical secrets for eons.

The Bell Medallion is a living antiquity, alive even now as I tell this tale, and furthermore I, the latest possessor of the Bell Medallion, having lived what seems a lifetime in just a few brief tics of time, must now put an end to this blessing and this curse.  It was for me to do this because I inherited the blasted Bell from my father, along with the stories and warnings surrounding it and its missing mate, the Medallion.

It was a stormy December day in our mountain village in Romania when my father acquired the Bell. The year was 1873. A young gypsy man, dazed, pale, and hungry from walking for hours through a storm, wandered into my fatherís clock making shop. The man raved of suffering from a curse he attributed to the Bell, which he produced from a dirty, canvas sack. My father recognized the Bell from stories he had heard and detailed sketches he had seenóeven the inscriptions were present. My father had taken the trouble to know the Bell so well because he was already the owner of the Medallion.

With the reunion of the Bell Medallion under my fatherís care,  the demise of his business and the end of his life as he knew it came quickly. He migrated to America in hopes not only of better prospects but to escape the Romanian underworld, also known as the Black Hand. Losing himself in America, the railway became his time machine and common hobos became his favored associates. He found himself always returning to the city of the great slaughterhouses, Chicago.  There he met my mother, and later passed on his dark secret to me.

Reign over time is the Bell Medallionís power, and the desire to manipulate Time is its curse. Throughout Time the possessor of the Bell Medallion, after trials and sufferings, concludes that its dreadful power must be muted for the protection not only of himself but all humanity, and thus severs head from body ­ that is, Bell from Medallion ­ with the idea of slaying the dragon of Time, but part of the secret of the Bell Medallion is that it must remain unbroken, for only when combined will its two halves represent peace, yet only when hidden from man's meddling can it in fact bestow peace. If in eternity it can sleep, then humanity, too, can rest.

So, it is the Bell Medallion that has brought me to this revelation. Time! It brings us all to know its wonder. It is our time now with the bell medallion and this is the tale that I spin for you tonight. But I must warn you all, that there is something you must remember, one might say this story is a riddle of time. If you are to decipher this riddle, you will need to know what time it is!

2
 

We spend our lives in smoky dank basements and speakeasys, where our only desires are accompanied by banjo riffs,  trumpet solos, rolling rhythm and ragtime. It's one of the ways we dream of escaping as we scrape together enough wage and tips to support our families, then we move to the next venue to rip through another rendition of our immense repertoire of blues, jazz, and ragtime diddys. Late into the night and early morning we would finally return home.

Meager stipends the boss reluctantly pays as we stand in a line waiting outside an office or kitchen for our wage. We were considered, of course, to be this meaningless nuisance called music. We were why people came to stay and drink and smoke and talk or fight, perhaps forget the dayís defeats. Sometimes I felt our music may deaden the pain of living, the difficult and sometimes brutal urban life. Often accompanied by booze, cocaine, tobacco, or even favors from loose ladies of pleasure, each evening was a new adventure.

I take what is paid, always coming back again. I don't have a choice. I having a wife and child, living on 26th Street in the Alba Flats deep within the city. We do our best given the disadvantage of a poor and pauper existence.

Timothy, my writing partner and confidant, too has a wife living in the same district. Allow me at this point to finally introduce myself. I am Eduardo de la Vaunt, born November 11th, 1870, to the proud father and clock maker Franco de la Vaunt.  My father believed in the importance of time and being on time, so, nine months to the day after conception, as he tells the story, his son was born. In the daytime, I am a railway conductor and timekeeper. At night the time I keep is with the rhythms and cadences of moonlighting musicians. In those circles I am known as Jacque Pappion to others besides my closest friends. This hides my true identity from those who might wish me harm.

From the boroughs in which we live permeates the flavors and smells of food and fragrance from around the globe. Irish, French, German, Jewish, Romanian, Chinese, Russian, Polish--just about every nationality can be found here. As I look back I realize that it was at this time that more than ever, everyone seemed to need each other, accepted it and were glad for it.

Timothy and I befriended one another at a pickup gig one night, formed our own minstrel group, and soon were renowned in the Chicago and St. Louis nightclubs and showboats. We were keen to the shifting currents of control in our hometown. Constantly the streets witnessed the see-saw of power gang to gang, family to family, often ending in death. Opportunists abounded, which is how our untimely mishap occurred. You could find corruption in all facets of society and commerce, and, of course, law enforcement and government.

Weíre nobodies, tunesmiths with the music needed, stolen, copied, rewritten, packaged, and repackaged as seen fit by others. We write the music as we know how, on paper or matchbooks, which we hide in our coat pockets and shoes so the bosses won't demand the ownership rights, which often occurs with sheet music to the benefit of those with silk-lined pockets. How can one own a song, a moment, an idea, a thought? For a period in time, it exists. Then echos vanish, final notes die as part of a reel.

ìIntellectual propertyî he calls our music, but the only intellect this man has is the ability to count dollars, and he does that very well. I remember once a movement to unionize musicians, a noble effort by some blues men on the east side, but mobsters and the police worked together to squash it, as with strikes and walkouts by steel workers, railroad men, and others. No one could gain a foothold, and everyone either wanted in or wanted out.

Timothy was an inventor, and during the day he was always working on some new gadget or whiz-bang device. He sold his ideas, drawings and prototypes for a pittance, but often laid the groundwork for greater inventions, leading him into more debt and even danger when his intellectual properties became attractive to mobsters and unscrupulous marketeers. These parasites moved from business to business, building to building, walking in wingtips and crushing their canes on the floor, extorting what they could from defenseless shop owners and shanty dwellers. The weak were scared, hungry most of the time, willing to capitulate. Often the police were in on the game and were never to be seen when the mob did its business.

It was no different in the clubs where we worked. The bosses supplied the cops with fresh drunks to lock up and supplied the mob with a place to squeeze his patrons. Pickpockets circulated through the audience lifting watches and wallets. Bartenders watered down liquor and beer. Every night we watched the faces contort into dismay, surprise, and then outrage as the fighting began. Any patron who complained was brutally expelled into an alley.

The last night we were in Chicago was a night like all others. The girls pushed booze and cigars. People danced to our ragtime boogie rhythms. Our little combo was different than the others, and we believed if we could get our sheet music to the right publisher we could cash in because our sheet music would be on every piano across the country. We just needed someone not owned by the mob.

In addition to our music, Timothy came up with some of the darndest machines you could imagine. He called his latest gizmo the Auto-Rhythmizer. It was an automated one-man band, in which we could etch our songs onto a spindle-drum that played back the composition note for note. It didnít work perfectly, though, and of course didnít sound quite humanóin fact, it sounded like a clinking, clanking, honking Dixieland train ride--but the possibilities were obvious to us. If the boss discovered the Auto-Rhythmizer, heíd take it from us, put it in the clubs, and we'd surely be blamed for losing every musician's job in the Southside, and so we'd have every mobster who owned a piece of any musician looking to crack our instruments over our heads.

Well, the world of inventors, hobos, and musicians is not one of tight lips and well-kept secrets. We got word that big bossman and his boys had heard of our invention and were coming after us at the club. We knew weíd be fish food at the bottom of the Lake Michigan, or at least lose a few fingers. We had to make a break for it. The rail yards were not far, and we could catch the next freight train out of town, wait out the storm, then come back for our families and leave for a new start somewhere.

We decided that before the curtain opened for our last set, Timothy would lash the batten of the curtain down so it wouldn't open, giving us time to escape, and in addition he set the Dixieland-train-riding Auto-Rhythmizer with its volume at full tilt. The automatic melody maker kicked out a 4/4 bluesy shuffle, strummed its magic and tooted out a sonic smokescreen that allowed us to escape into the clubís alley, crawl under a fence and run to the rail yards. Behind us the patrons stomped their feet and clapped their hands as the management tried to lift the curtain to reveal what they assumed was the band.

In the southern-most part of the rail yards we used our contacts to deliver ourselves into the assistance of a brotherhood of smugglers, thieves, and other friends who were the sons of the original hobo-ghosts who rode the rails across America. It wasn't by accident that they were eager to help us. Years ago my own father was one of those infamous train riders crossing the Great Plains on the Union Pacific. The brotherhood of  the American hobo was a real bond not forgotten by those who were initiated into its embrace. Every city had a rail rider organization whose tentacles reached from the rail stations into the neighborhoods and boroughs for miles around. I, too, had ridden the rails with my father, who introduced me to the great American West and his resource of trusted friends.

On this misting, frigid early March morning, Eddies of the Wind boarded the Norfolk Southern Railway bound for Atlanta, Georgia. It would be not only a journey across the Mason-Dixon Line, but across time itself.
 

3
 

We felt safe in the boxcar. There was hay, blankets, beans and frankfurters, even coffee, whiskey and cigarettes. We had friends in many cars, lookouts on top of the train ­ they were our eyes and ears against discovery by the mobsters who surely were looking for us. The trainís rhythm relentlessly drove our weary bodies to sleep, and we found ourselves a few hours out of Atlanta when the signal came in.  The mob had been tipped off and were waiting in the Atlanta rail yards, possibly along the route, too. They'd search of the train car by car until they found us.

It was time to act and act fast. We were trapped like rats awaiting extermination. I still remember the terror I felt and what happened next. Timothy had a sickly and anxious look on his face and no tricks left in his whiz-bang gizmo bag.

"Do you have the Bell Medallion, Ed?"

I pulled it out of my bag. It was suspended on a long silver chain.

"What is it?î a hobo asked.

"The Time Bell Medallion," I said.

ìWhatís it do?î

"Itís a device that will save our necks by transporting us through time!î exclaimed Timothy.

"It can dematerialize any human being or inanimate object within a variable circular radius," I explained as the hobo twisted his head to examine the Bell Medallion.

"Once a coordinate is selected, we ring the Time Bell, so a dematerialization of our molecular structure takes place and the traveler is transported through a time portal, and wherever he is standing at that moment is where he'll be standing at the given coordinate in time.î

"Does it work?" he asked.

A long, uncomfortable pause ensued.

"I've never tried it but once, but before I transported I stopped at the doorway of time. However, legend has it that is works quite well. ì

ìWell, we have no better moment in time than now, my friend, to test it!î said Tim.

I knew he was right and began setting the Bell Medallion's time coordinate. Just at that moment two of our lookouts climbed into the boxcar and shouted that the mob had boarded the train and were a few cars away. We needed to make a jump for it.

"Where are we?" I asked.

A hobo yelled from the top of the car, "You're in Chattanooga, southeastern Tennessee."

"What time coordinates do we set? Hurry! Letís go!" said Timothy.

"I don't know. How about 1949?"

"Fine!"

I spun the dial and clicked the ancient pegs to set the coordinate.

"It's set. Now ring the bell!î I yelled to Timothy.

As soon as the chime rang electricity surged and began to spark and arc across the car in a spherical shape, pulsating and crackling with ionic charges. My skin went ice cold as if mercury was in my veins. My eyes fluttered and flashed. I could see silhouettes of my comrades through my eyelids, flashing and fading in and out as my muscles began to convulse. At once a crack sounded and our rolling boxcar came to a screeching halt, doors flung open and there we were, skeletons naked. An electrical phantasm arcing out of the boxcar doors blinded our would-be assassins, who now lay motionless on the ground. A molecular whirlwind had engulfed the car and everything around it for 30 yards. Then everything went black.

We no longer existed in the year 1910. Like the ghosts who had ridden these rails so many years earlier and who faded into the past, so too had our past suddenly faded into darkness, and our future was as dim as the rail man ahead waving his lantern. Two trains had passed in the nightóone known as the past and one known as the future.

We awoke laying next to a meadow by the track. The sun felt bright and warm on my face as I opened my eyes, blinking. Birds again chirped their familiar earthly song as they seemed to comment on this fantastic event. Timothy pulled himself up, dusted himself off, and helped me up as my vision began to clear. My head felt as if it would not stop spinning, but I was alive and seemingly alright. Others, too, were coming around -- a couple of hobo riders who were in the boxcar with us.

"Where are we, Timothy?" I asked.

"I think weíre near the city of Chattanooga on the border of Tennessee and Georgia. The coordinates are still set to the year 1949. If that thing works weíre almost 40 years ahead in the future.î

The world looked the same -- daylight, grass, the treesóbut the world surely is different now. We decided to be careful finding our way to civilization for shelter and food. We walked through the woods for a ways, always alongside the railroad tracks, which we noticed had seen a lot of use over the years. It was strange how the steel on the trains and tracks had instantly rusted as we jumped forward in time.

We began to question our new reality. Had we truly vaulted forward in time? How would we get along in these new surroundings? Certainly the modern world would not be as brutal as the one we had left behind. Where will we go? What will we do? As we neared the city, we saw and heard the movements and sounds of a modern city. The woods thinned out. We came upon a hardened road, and after a time a modern automobile whooshed by. We were aghast at the speed and power of the vehicle. Timothy began ruminating on the physics that must be in play.

We began to realize we were in a modern world, and we didn't possess the knowledge or skills that would enable us to blend in. We decided to make our way to the train yards and find a hobo, just as we had back in 1910, so we continued along the train lines until arriving at an array of switch-tracks with freight cars, locomotives, and haulers of all types. Knowing our fate if we were discovered as trespassers, we hid behind heaps of burlap, bundles strewn along the tracks and behind some rotten wooden pallets.  Then we darted into the woods and worked our way to the other side of the depot.

Looking for anyone who looked like a possible ally, we climbed a hill overlooking the train yard. It was bustling with activity -- rail men, freight men, and engineers all scurrying about. Usually a group of hobos sets up camp just outside the train depots or switchyards, off in the woods near a stream or under a large Indian rock house. We were looking for a camp or campfire. Meanwhile, trains lumbered by like long, lazy centipedes.

In the distance, we saw a man walking along the tracks towards us. He had a slow deliberate pace and seemed to be collecting shiny objects, perhaps tin or metal, and placing them into a bag. He wore a flannel shirt and ragged old pants, definitely not a railroad employee. As he neared our hideaway, Timothy walked down the hill and greeted him.

The man looked at him with suspicion, so Timothy added, ìI won't hurt you. I just want a bit of information, perhaps directions.î

"Where are you going?" the man asked, still suspicious.

ìWe're not sure. We're travelers from Chicago. We need food and shelter.î

The man stayed stone-faced and wary. His eyes were as white as porcelain and cocked unevenly. Finally, he pointed north of the train yard.

"Go up a few bends in the track and you'll find a camp. There'll be a man there. Tell him that Ariel sent you. He can help you find some food and a place to stay near the yards or up in the mountains. His name is Rainbow, and if you're travelers you'll need identification or the police may take you in. Rainbow will help you with both. ì

"Rainbow?" I muttered under my breath.

"Who is Rainbow?î Timothy asked.

ìIt'd be best to not ask too many questions around here, boy. Just follow your gut and you'll be alright. He'll arrange a place for you to rest up for a while, at least until you can get your affairs in order. Then you can find work or start you a new life. For the time being I suggest you stay up in the hills with Rainbow and his friends, business partners, uh, ya know, kinfolk and such.î

"What kind of business partners?î I asked.

ìWe don't want any trouble. Are you boys federals?"

"No, weíre not. Weíre just trying to be careful,î I replied.

"You can trust 'em. They're moonshiners, but you'll be safe and ya tummies will be warm. Nobody will be a stickiní their big noses in yer business up in them mountains.î

It sounded like a good place to get our bearings and plot our next move.  Without hardly delaying his meticulous shuffle down the tracks the old man lumbered off continuing to collect his tin can treasure, and he faded away around a bend on the other side of the yard.

We set off to find our mystery contact Rainbow, rumored to be just ahead. Sure enough, a couple of railway bends later we found the camp as smoke billowed up from a hobo fire. The aroma of red beans and rice, and campfire coffee hit us square in the face. It had been a full day since we'd eaten, but we dared not eat someone elseís food, lest one lose a hand or leg to a nice hobo stew. A vision of cannibal hobos rushed through my mind and sobered my concentration considerably.

Hoe Boy Stew

Beside a wandering railroad line, campfire smoke ascends through trees
Ventured I into the wood to find the source of such wayward hobo delicacy

A clearing, an old man frail, he stirred a kettle made of an old walnut wash pail
His eyes fixed upon the brew, for I guessed he hadn't eaten in a week maybe two

"Díya like a cup", he offered as many polite travelers are known to do
Thanked him I did, and gladly dippin corn fritters in his hardy hoe boy stew

At first the flavor tantalized, my tongue thought it a guest of the great divine
I asked what kind of flavors within, was it possum or even porcupine

Deep into the soup I peered and so much to my surprise
An eye of blue looked back at me as it bubbled up from inside

The old man cocked a brow as he spit out a bone and his grizzly reply,
"Oh, this is just an old friend's recipe, he gave to me before he died

You see, hobos never throw away or waste at all a scrap to be used
So, in honor of my passing friend, I cooked him up in this hoe boy stewî
 

"Care for some beans and rice, fellars?" said a long lanky man loading his truck. He watched the fire with one eye and us with the other.

"Hello. Are you Rainbow?" asked Timothy. "Ariel said you could help us find a place to rest up for a time."

Rainbow squinted over the fire and walked up to Timothy. "Would ya like some coffee, boys?"

We drank coffee and explained our situation as simply as we could. Rainbow listened but seemed unaffected by our troubles. He had his own burdens to lug around.

"You boys are certainly welcomed to stay up in the hills. You won't be bothered and you can figure out what direction the wind might carry ya next. We'll make a cozy little camp for ya until we can get yuns a cabin.  You can do a little work for me as payment.î

We were in uncharted territory and had few allies and even fewer friends. We hoped this would change, and Rainbow seemed to be a trustworthy man, a business man, and I would say, although raggedy dressed, an intelligent man.

"Come on with me. We'll load up this truck and be headin off to the mountain shortly.  I'll find ya some decent clothes for them strange duds yer a-wearin. Ya look like you just stepped out of the turn of the century," Rainbow chuckled as we loaded the truck.

We were still in our performance clothes, and the fashion of the day was capes, long rider coats, vests and bowler hats.

I picked up a bag of corn, potatoes, three bags of sugar, yeast and other supplies. I loaded them into the back bed of the truck, then climbed in and we were off and out of the backwater wooded creek that ran alongside the river and the rail tracks. This was where moonshiners offloaded illegal liquor onto trains bound for cities up north, cities like Chicago that had a taste for Tennessee White Liquor. Moonshiners could sell corn liquor and support their families quite well. As I learned of this new place and time, I began to feel like a weary and lonesome time traveler.
 

4
 

Rainbow drove us through the small city of Chattanooga, coincidentally known as Little Chicago because of its many mob ties to gambling, auto theft, and the moonshine business. This alone brought many opportunists to the cityís doorstep, but mainly it was a coal town and a railway hub connecting Atlanta and the southeastern U.S. with the north.

Soon we were over the Tennessee River and off to the mountains on a 15-minute drive, winding our way up a rickety old mountain road. Bumps and potholes, scrapes and grinds seemed to echo through the woods and down creek beds as we inched up the mountain road incline and around a curvy pass known as the Double-U.

During our journey into the foothills of Appalachia,  Rainbow whistled and talked, told stories and asked questions, and sang old-time rags and ballads. Mainly he made up his own words for classic old melodies. Between songs he passed around a jug of corn liquor.

"White lightin,í anybody?"

We graciously accepted and soon we were all as drunk as we had ever been.

Rainbow brought us to a remote camp at the mouth of a millpond. He deposited us in tents, fully equipped with cots, blankets, bed linens, fresh water, and whiskey. To tell the truth, the story goes blank here.

We awoke the next morning with our heads pounding and eyes blurred as we tried to inspect our new surroundings. We ate fresh eggs, fatback, and biscuits, and then decided to get acquainted with our new friend and find out where the hell we were. But Rainbow was nowhere to be found. We called out into the woods, only to hear our echoes call back.

We made the best of our time by bathing and swimming in the pond. Later we made fishing poles out of long baby-birch branches. Large-mouth bass and trout teemed in the pond and seemed willing to jump into our frying pan. I fried bass as Tim turned over a couple of squirrels on our campfire. It seemed we were in a blessed place, so much was available for harvest.

To me it looked like an old abandoned Indian dwelling. Rock outcroppings faced in three directions, and part of the camp formed a bowl shape that gave protection from the wind and weather. A brook ran through the center of the camp and into the pond. There was even a cave for storing dry goods at a nice 65 degrees. Deer and turkey roamed wild through the woods, polk salad and mountain onions were everywhere, apple trees dotted the openings in the woods along with walnut and hickory trees, and a multitude of berries, roots, sassafras and herbs could be found in the adjacent meadow that sprawled up and over a hill in the distance. This was a corner of heaven carved out for us by our new friend Rainbow.

Who is Rainbow? And where is he?

Just then from the distant woods came a popping sound. It was Rainbow's truck sputtering up the woodland mining road that lead to our camp. The truck came to a scraping halt. It was full of supplies, blankets, clothes, soap, food, eggs, fatback and, of course, plenty of white lighting.

"Morniní boys! I hope ya like your new home!"

We helped Rainbow unload supplies into our storage cave.

ìIf'n there's anything you might think you need, just let me know and we'll see if we can get our hands on it."

"Thank you, Rainbow, for all this hospitality," I said

"Can we eat these berries, nuts and such that we see around here?" Tim asked.

ìIf you'll follow the deer around and watch what they eat, then you can eat whatevers they eat. I've been a followiní deer for years. A man can learn a lot by followiní an animal. He can learn where to eat, where a safe place to sleep is. He'll certainly find clean water," said Rainbow.

He had grown up in the woods and knew countless tricks and methods of survival in the wild. At a young age he became an expert in herbology, although him and his kinfolk never called it that. He was a master hunter and trapper with deer meat and pelts pinned on a lean-to drying rack. Him and his kinfolk were veterans of this nature world and had become self-sufficient by using survival techniques handed down through his family for years.

ìFellars, we're haviní a little shindig tonight and all the kinfolk and friends are cominí. They want you boys to come along also, so theys can meet ya. I told em all about you. We don't meet many outsiders round here, especially yankees from Chicago,î said Rainbow as he stirred the fire.

"Of course we'll be there," I said as I peered over the fry pan with eggs and bacon.

ìWe'll have us a big time with food and liquor, music and danciní. We got some of the best pickers on the ridge. They'll be a playiní up a storm.î

At the mention of music, our ears perked up.

"It'd be great to find us a few musical instruments and we could play right along," I said.

Rainbow looked at me with interest and said, ìYou mean you fellars play music?"

"Sure we do, been playing for years, Rainbow,î Tim piped in. ìWe played all over Chicago and even the riverboats on the Mississippi."

"Why, we worked for everybody in Chicago from --î

I cut Tim off. ìUh, we're quite proficient at music, Rainbow," I said and knocked the conversation cold.

Rainbow paid no mind as he worked on the other side of the camp. He started pulling some dead trees away, which revealed a contraption of sorts, a metal behemoth alone in the woods.

Rainbow began to load a large vat with some ingredients. He stirred and agitated the container, then lit a hickory fire underneath.

"Rainbow, what in tarnation is that?" I asked.

ìThis is one of my moonshine stills. We're in a moonshiners camp, not a miners camp. Used to be a miners camp,î Rainbow said, smiling.

"You'll be safe here. There ain't no need to worry, unless of course the revenuers find us. Then we're all in a heap of goat shit. They ain't been around here in a while, no telliní when they'll make a return visit. Since Prohibition ended, we ain't had much of a problem, but our liquor is cheaper and cleaner than government-stamped booze. So the revenuers do what they do best -- they collect revenues from hillbillies like me! And I do what I do best -- make corn liquor and apple jack.î

Rainbow worked diligently on his moonshine makins for years, and that afternoon we got to see him do it with our own eyes. We began to smell the sweet aromatic sour mash that was beginning to hang over the camp like a dense cloud. We just relaxed and enjoyed the day. It seemed like no responsibility was pressing, and thankfully no gangsters were chasing us. A day in heaven it was, swimming and eating. We were missing only one thing.

ìMr. Rainbow,î Tim asked quietly, ìdo you all have any musical instruments? I'm a bit of a fiddle player and Eduard over there, he's a guitar and banjo player.î

Rainbow cocked his head and looked over at us. "I knew you boys ain't done a lick of work in your lives."

"We work hard,î bolstered Tim. "Yes, we do, or did work hard. We would hit two or three clubs a night, sometimes more. We earned a living for our families and..." Tim looked at me as if to say, ìI know I'm saying too much," then he held his tongue as Rainbow laughed.

ìYou boys don't have to make a big deal about it. Hillbillies are some of the laziest folk you'll ever meet."

Tim was noticeably agitated, but Rainbow cut that off by inviting us to the shindig again.

"You boys wanna come to a little hoe down we got scheduled for tomorrow night and play some music? Its a comin-home party for some of the boys in the holler. They're out of the army and shakiní the dust off their hillbilly duds and comin back to help us out here in the hills.î

"Sure, we'd love to attend, Rainbow. We'd be honored, sir!" I said.

Rainbow scratched his head as he tested some ëshine that was a-thumpiní through his still. He raised the cup up and took a big swallow of shine.

"Wheeeew... ahh, its a good batch,î Rainbow exclaimed. "Yep, they'll have some musical instruments there tonight and some mountain musicians makiní mountain music."

That sounded great. We were excited to have found this place, or perhaps somehow it found us.

It had been a few short days since we had made jumped to the present time. We had hardly spoken about it at all. I knew Timothy was intrigued about many aspects surrounding the Bell Medallion. I had revealed to him earlier my familyís secret, which had been a burden to me, and he had listened without demanding an explanation. Now he was keenly aware of this mysterious power and began to query me about it.

"Ed, I'm not sure how to make sense of this,î he said. Tim was a brilliant inventor and inquisitive thinker, but I could tell he was having difficulty with this matter.

 ìI understand your amazement,î I said. ìUntil a few days ago, I had never really used the Medallion but one time, and then my fear won the best of me and I came back as soon as my veins began to feel like ice water."

I only had heard myth and folk tales about its power. This trip had changed that, but I had come to the same conclusions as found in the myths. The blessing of the Bell Medallion is its conquest of time, and its curse is the power that can destroy its owner. It is best not to use the Bell Medallion at all, for when it is used great blessings and great curses descend upon its user. Usually wealth is acquired easily, which makes one a target for greedy hearts who wish to locate the source of this fountain of wealth. In addition to this unwanted attention, there are the alchemists who chase the Bell Medallion through time, sometimes close in pursuit, sometime far away.

"We could be rich, we could travel throughout time, to the end of the world and back,î Tim said, his mind racing. "We could go back and rescue our families."

ìNot so fast, Tim,î I said. ìWe can't go back yet, there are time paradigms to contend with. Weíre still not safe, and we don't know the fate of our loved ones." I shuddered at the thought of the mob.

"We could have the world at our fingertips, or at least do some good with it,î he said.

"For over a thousand years men exploited the Bell Medallion for conquest and grasped only desolation in the end. We must be wise in our use of its power. Letís just try to enjoy our time here now. Weíre in seemingly good company with Rainbow."
 

5
 

Again as the days before, we could hear Rainbow's old truck sputtering and popping, grinding and squeaking up the bumpy miners road, a serpentine path that wound up and through mountain cliffs and back through an incline of woods. It was time for Rainbow to check on his liquor, which had been thumping all night. The aroma that came off of our little distillery was not the most pleasant, but quite unique indeed.  You could almost taste the sour on the back of your tongue.

Rainbow pulled up to a screeching halt. "You boys are in for a treat tonight. Brother Harris is a planniní on killiní a pig for our celebration.î

"What are we celebrating?î said Tim.

"Well, we got us some new friends, and we got us a brand new batch a liquor."

"What should we wear to the party, Rainbow?î I asked as I scoured dirt from my overalls.

"Now you boys don't have to get all gussied up. Just come as ya are and everybody else will do the same," said Rainbow as he busied himself with work and whistled a cowboy tune.

We scurried around getting ourselves ready for the celebration. Soon the jugs were full of liquor, and we were all slicked up and looking dapper. Rainbow netted some fish and picked a big batch of blackberries, and he said, "the missus is a makiní us some cobbler. We gotta pick these blackberries for her." I pitched in and after I finally loosened myself from the brier thicket, we were ready to go.

We boarded the old rickety truck, me and Rainbow riding in the front seat,  Tim and the hunting dogs in the back. We made our way down the miners road, around a ravine and down through a hollow, or ìhollerî as they call it here. Finally, we rounded a mountain cliff and on to Rainbow's cluster of cabins.

His family had their own mountain dwellings nestled in a holler back off the mountain ridge. Most of his kinfolk had lived there in Smoky Holler most there lives. Riding along the lovely route I asked Rainbow about his life, how long heíd lived here. Always glad to share a conversation, he busted loose with a long rendition of his family history.

"I was born here and pretty much lived my whole life here. My great grandpappy before me and on down to my daddy and me." Rainbow had a proud look in his eye as he spoke, as if the familyís survival was his responsibility, and he meant to fulfill it.

"We get by up here in these mountains. We got nobody telliní us whatís to do. We trap for meat, gather woodland herbs, grow our own food, fish, hunt dear, boar, and turkey. We got the best liquor in the state, and we make a little moneys off our backwoods stills and herb business. I ain't sayiní we're the lucky ones, in that we still sometimes can't afford clothes for our littlest ones they grow out of em so quick. Thereís some around here who is got less than me. Since the coal mines done give out around here, a lot a people up ën left or died out."

We pulled into an area of the woods where Rainbow's cabins were. You'd never seen such a bustle of activity. Dogs and kids came running out towards us. The women were all busy readying the celebration site. Huge tables of food already laid out like some woodland feast prepared for royalty.

Rainbow went around and introduced us to his family and all the folks who had arrived at the party. Everyone openly accepted us into their midst. There were people of all ages. Young and old all had a big time, dancing and twirling, clogging and shin slapping. Most of all they had musical instruments, and I'd never heard such mountain music as I did that night. Tim and I joined in and likewise dazzled the crowd with our rags and reels of old-time music. And I do mean old time.

ìHowíd you boys learn to play that ragtime like ya do?î asked one of our new friends.

ìWe learned it in Chicago and traveliní up and down the Mississippi. That kinda music just sticks with ya over time,î I said.

"Chicago?î a bystander asked. "What you boys doiní so far down here?"

Rainbow jumped in. "Dagun, I don't call it polite to interrogate our guests here. I'd 'preciate it if you'd keep yer business yer business."

Dagun was a steely-eyed, stoutly built rum runner protected by the local government and police. He drove white lighting for the bosses downtown, who would in turn load the illegal ëshine on trains and ship it up north. It seemed like everywhere we went corruption and crime controlled the lives of those around us.

"Dagun was just about to load up and get on back to the bossman's warehouse, werenít you, Dagun?" Rainbow put his arm around Dagun and walked over to his souped-up Ford.

I didn't like the feeling I had. It was one of suspicion, a gut feeling that this Dagun was a fellow to be wary of. I would tell Rainbow later. For now I had a celebration to enjoy.

Tim and I struck up a conversation with the musicians. There were two who immediately caught our attention, Rainbow's niece and her husband. Julia Thyme happened to be a drummer and had an old box set up with a washboard and wash tub. She had command of her craft and absolutely perfect meter. We were especially interested because it seemed we were always searching for a drummer. In Chicago, we would find a new one every other day and then they were off to another engagement. How convenient would it be for Julia to drum for us, and in addition, her husband Ira was a sensational guitar player. He knew so many songs, and we ripped through countless versions of mountain songs and the new bluegrass music of the day.

When Rainbow had a celebration people sometime didn't leave for a week or two. Often, as with tradition, in times of harvest the kinfolk and friends helped each other gather the crops or manage the livestock. The mountain folk often went down to the valley to drive cattle up the mountain passes in the summer. On the mountain grasslands were fresh and it was cool, which gave the herd a respite from the dismal summer heat.

We were given a tent, and I asked Rainbow why the place was called Smoky Holler.

"Years ago this was the biggest ole moonshine holler in these parts,î he said. ìThere's so much ëshine thumpiní outta here the smoke hung low in the trees, like clouds hanginí just above the ground. It done got its name that a-way."

He smiled and winked before adding, ìThe truth is the coal miners who lived in this holler burned so much coal for heat, the smoke hung throughout the holler. Now the stills are scattered throughout the woods so any smoke now is from them. And them ole revenuers can sniff em out and find em. Ifín they do, they'll bust up stills and take anybody they can find to jail. I never been to jail but my daddy done has. You boys can stay down here for a couple of days, then we'll cart ya back up to yer camp."

Rainbow was always planning the next step for everybody. It seemed that everybody did what he said because he knew best and always seemed to think of it first. That night before I fell asleep, I sorted through my mind the immense distance the past week had taken us. A new place, new friends, a new time. It was mind boggling. I fell asleep and dreamed of Chicago and our old borough.

 
6
 

Every week Rainbow loaded the truck with provisions and items we might need at camp. Again, we would climb aboard the old rickety Ford truck and make the slow climb to the miners camp. On this day Julia was driving with Ira and Rainbow. Tim and I piled into the back where the hunting dogs were laying, and we all rode through the mountain passes and up the old miners road to our camp.

Julia planned on digging for ginseng that afternoon, since an area nearby was teeming with it. We unloaded our truck full of goods, then followed Julia into the woods to help her harvest the woodland bounty. Through the woods near our camp bordered a lovely meadow, where Julia later planned to pick blackberries for her mama's famous blackberry cobbler. At one end was a small pond, at the other the blackberry thicket which grew off into the woods. Throughout the meadow grew many wildflowers and herbs, which would all eventually be collected and used.

Julia was no stranger to adversity. Born in the surrounding hills, she was raised in the midst of coal miners and moonshiners. Her family had eluded the FBI, ATF, and state and local law enforcement for years as the county's biggest moonshine distiller and distributor. Their customer base stretched from the aristocrats in Washington to the organized crime figures in such cities as Chicago. She described portions of her past fondly and other portions as a miserable struggle to survive in these remote Appalachian hills and hollers, which now were being encroached on by determined developers.

Even though she grew up in fierce poverty, Julia and her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, along with first and second cousins always had enough clothes, enough food, love, and just enough guts to keep marking the trail called life. Marking the trails, she said, was a practice mountaineers taught her as a young girl. They would mark a tree on a trail or at a fork in the path with a white arrow pointing in the direction they were traveling.  This would keep the disorientation so common with this vast woodland from rendering one lost and unsure of their way home.

The woods were full of hidden treasure, and Julia and her sisters, aunts, and mother would often rummage through the leaves and thickets looking for herbs, wild flowers, sassafras, bloodroot,  polk salad, fiddle ferns, cattails, blackberries, and the prized and lucrative American ginseng root. To this day she could go into the woods and find ingredients for medicine or exotic teas. Sassafras root was one of the many favorites that she fondly remembered chewing it in place of bubblegum. I enjoyed watching a sense of contentment roll across her face when she fondly recalled those times. One of her fondest was of her father, and how he would bring her bubblegum trinkets and cracker jack jewelry from the five and dime.

She and her sisters earned extra money as children by making gift cards on which she applied her flawless talent for calligraphy. When she wrote, one could see the work of a master. It was a different time then, and a different place that seemed sheltered from the complexities that her adult life would encompass.

That era of liquor runners would come and go. The stills that her grandfather and great uncles built would be busted up, and Julia would meet and marry Ira, who was kin to a mountain family that were some of Rainbow's closest friends. They were considered family and partners in the mountain businesses. As the coal mines declined and finally shut down, families migrated to the city for work. Roads were built up the mountain, and slowly a remote and quaint community of hill folk was invaded by builders who saw the land as just a place to bring in more residents. Julia and Ira, like many others, were dragged into the modern world, with its time cards, schedules, and hourly wages.

In a way, Julia and her kinfolk's way of life had changed even more than Tim and mine had. We had merely traveled across the threshold of time. She and her kinfolk were waging a mountain war against the modern world.

Suddenly Julia cocked her ear to the wind. ìShhhhh!î she said. Everything became quiet. She looked over the mountain bluff and eyed the mountain road far below. Then she burst out on a run fast through the woods. "Come on quick! We gotta get back to Rainbow."

We tried to keep up with her, but I was not accustomed to stumbling through the woods. We reached the camp, and I couldn't speak for being out of breath and fallen to my knees. Julia began to spit out broken language.

"Rev- Rev- Revenuers, coming up the mountain pass, I done saw em, three car loads!"

Rainbow jumped out of his skin and up and a started running around the camp trying to load all the cooking supplies into his truck. Tim looked at me, but the only option I could think of popped into my head. The Bell Medallion.

"Lets transport everybody outta here for a  couple of hours,"  I said to him.

"Ed, are you sure? What about the secret?"

I fumbled in my sack for the Medallion and said, "We gotta get them the hell outta here, and there isn't any other way. If we don't, we're all going to jail. Get Rainbow and Julia to gather up everything, and place it and all the liquor beside the still."

Rainbow was frantic and didn't understand. "Come on, Rainbow.  Stand over here. Trust us," said Tim.

As we huddled beside the old moonshine still, which still thumped away making moonshine, I dialed in a time coordinate. Rainbow was looking at me like I was a strange being from an outer space comic book. Of course, by now thatís exactly what my life had become.

"What the hell is that contraption?" he asked. Just then the revenuers began to near the moonshine camp.

The year? 2008. I rang the Bell and the air around us electrified. The hair on our bodies stood up on end, and our blood began running ice-cold mercury through our veins.  A loud crack and large, billowing cloud of smoke rose, then all that remained was an empty camp except for some supplies and the heavy sour mash smoke that hung in the trees.

When the revenuers arrived, I can just imagine there was a lot of head scratching going on. They could smell the camp was empty, but there was no still, no sour mash, no moonshine, no moonshiners. It turned out that Dagun had tipped off the FBI about Rainbow's still, but after leading them there, now he could only mumble to himself.

 ìDagun, you've led us up here on this mountain for a wild goose chase,î said the angry FBI agent. ìSheriff, if you ever get another tip from this boob again, just ignore it."  The agent branded Dagun a supreme ass, climbed in his black sedan and drove away.

In the meantime, what wonders we would find in 2008. As our lightheaded feeling subsided, we found ourselves near what appeared to be picnic grounds or a recreational area. It was a lovely afternoon, and dozens of elderly people were milling around. Rainbow, Tim, Ira, Julia, and myself stood out with our country mountain duds and a fully functioning moonshine still. Soon we were surrounded by residents curious to know what we were making or selling.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen,î I announced. ìWe are going to show you a way to cure all of your ailments and ills. You may have rheumatoid problems now, but one sip of .... uh, Rainbow's Rheumatoid Elixir and I can promise you your pains will be cured." Tim burst into a banjo reel and I have to say our audience seemed very receptive to our message.  I suspect some may have remembered an old-time medicine show or two from their distant past.

"Thatís right, ladies and gentlemen, a few sips and you'll be healed from the miseries of age.î

A  line form of at least 50 or more elderly customers. One after another they sampled our medicine, soon to find themselves feeling light as a feather, falling on the ground and rolling with laughter. On one side a line grew by the minute, and on the other side they sprawled out on the lawn rolling around like kids, just laughing and having a big time. I guess if it weren't for the fact that now they couldn't walk, they would have gotten back in line for a second dose.

Just when everything was going our way, a problem upset the apple cart, or corn liquor cart, in this case. At the top of the hill a couple of orderlies were running towards us, our moonshine still, and our drunk and happy patrons.

"Who are you and what in Godís name are you doing?" an orderly barked at us. "And what in the heck is that contraption?"

ìThis here is a rheumatoid medicine maker and we're doctors!" proclaimed Rainbow.

At once I knew we were dead. The old folks rolling around on the ground laughed and giggled.

ìWe didn't mean to create a problem, sir. We're travelers and just passing through,î I said, but the orderlies hollered they were going to call the police and they began running back up the hill.

"Ed, we've got to get out of here," Tim said to me.

"Itís been roughly two hours since the revenuers were in the camp. Letís hope and pray they're gone," I said.

I dialed the Bell Medallion back to the year 1949, rang the bell, and the spherical arcing of ice-cold electrons again surrounded us. Again, in a flash we were back in our moonshine camp, which was thankfully empty, although busted up. The revenuers left a note on Rainbow's truck warning that they'd be back. What they meant was that they wanted their cut.

"Dagun, that little turncoat. Those men are evil, no good, tar-covered, flea-bitten parasites,î said Rainbow.

Rainbow, Julia, and Ira were now not sure who or what we were. In a bewildered voice Julia asked, "What is that thing, that Ö?î

"Itís how we came to be here with you in the first place. Now you see why our story had so many holes in it. I will explain everything to you," I began, but Rainbow cut me off.

ìWe don't need to know nuthin about it. Just keep it to yer selves. I don't know what that thing is that you boys got, but somethiní like that sure could be a-knockiní on a fiery dangerous door."

We were in the same situation as back in Chicago. Evil had been summoned by the lure of money as common folk tried to protect the livelihoods and the safety of their families. That night sitting at the campfire, Tim and I discussed how each time we activated the Bell Medallion, sooner or later all hell broke loose and greed seemed to be at the root of it. Tim was growing weary of our journey.

"I just want to go back home, be with my family, eat a Polish brat from the market," he said.

"I know. Itís difficult to be so far from home," I said, and I, too, had a hollow feeling each time the memories returned.

"Maybe one of us can go back to check on our families someday,î he said as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
 

7

That night as I slept I dreamt of my journey home, back to Chicago. It was like I was floating through a dream state or perhaps a nicklelodian movie that flickered on my eyelids just like the veiwfinder at the penny arcade.

I quite enjoyed my dream journey. This time the mob wasn't chasing me, and I could enjoy the familiar sights and sounds of old Chicago.  After disembarking at the station, I made my way through the city streets and boroughs. This was where I had started my fantastic journey. My dream was accompanied by the mysterious Bell Medallion which had become firmly anchored in my psyche.

 Time travel felt as if one was a pin cushion spun from the fabric of time itself.  My body felt porous,  as if someone could see right through me. One could always hear the cackling of ancient alchemists as they reached into the electrical sphere to try and grasp the swirling particles of the Bell Medallion, which slipped like sand through their fingers.

 In my dream it was just past midnight and darkness shrouded the woodlands surrounding the train yards.  As I made my way across the tracks just south of the switching lines, I crossed a creek and far into the woods a small fire burned as embers floated up into a canopy of leaves that was backlit by starlight. I smelled beans and coffee drifting through the woods. I called into the thick underbrush the song of a sparrow, a hobo code that asked permission to approach. The return of my request was the hoot of an owl. Permission granted, I approached the campsite.

ìHello, my friends. I am Eduardo De La Vaunt.î

It was almost as if an apparition had announced himself.

ìEduardo De La Vaunt the time traveler?" a hobo asked.

"Yes, I am a man who has vaulted his worldly body through Time,î I replied, ì we all are vaulting through Time? And if so, are not we all time travelers, our bodies the vehicles in which to travel through time?"

The men fell silent, half scared of this ghostly visitation and half pondering the philosophical point.

"I've returned to ask one favor of my friends, the travelers," I continued. The attentive group focused on me with wide eyes as I stood in the clearing illuminated by their campfire.

"Where have you been, De Le Vaunt?" one of the travelers asked.

"It is not important. I've been in hiding far away from here."

ìThe rumor has it you and your friend just disappeared into thin air."

"I beg you to not worry with the details of my past. It would be better if you didn't ask. I only come to you to learn the fate of my wife Angelina and my child. I also about the family of Timothy Axmacher. Can you help me?"

"Mr. De Le Vaunt, the details of their demise isn't a pleasant story, sir, and none which is verifiable by us, so many rumors have passed." He sipped his coffee from a tin cup.

"What happened? I beg you to tell me."

"Well, the grapevine has it that she was detained by the authorities after your disappearance."

"You mean the mob?"

"Well, sir, they are one and the same now. Apparently, she was coerced into petty theft due to lack of income. They arrested her and sent her to prison. She served her time, then returned home where she eventually met another man. They settled north of the city with a child and perhaps more by now. She married the captain of a river freighter, who lives most of the time atop his cargo vessel transporting burlap cotton bales. You would recognize him by his thin moustache and his immense appetite for bathtub gin."

My feelings sank, as if they had run aground on a sandbar, and I was awash in dismay and acceptance.  I slumped to the ground beside the campfire, and a cup of coffee and a cigarette were placed in my hands. Silence followed for some time. I thought to myself the space-time continuum had grown too complex to unravel. It was no use the past was now further away now than ever before.

"Only in the legends of hobo travelers is my legacy, I was now free from the past and the grip of the Chicago underworld'. It was over and gone. I could not return. My wife and child would be better off never to know the truth of this paradigm of time. I struggled to convince myself that their lives would be good.

My home was now destined to be in the future.
 
 
 

8
 

The next morning we were awakened by the clatter of saws sawing and trees falling. Before we could finish our coffee a clearing had been cut where Rainbow and his kinfolk were surveying a site.

ìThis here is you boysí new cabin,î Rainbow hollered to us.

We were astonished, and I immediately made my way to the men and implored, "Gentlemen, I'm touched by your generosity but you don't need to go to such lengths. And we don't exactly have a down payment for a mortgage."

The men laughed, and Rainbow squinted and asked, "Now what the hell is a mortgage?"

I had forgotten that these mountain folk didn't rely on modern banking practices. They just did for each other. After trying to reason with them, we acquiesced to their labors and joined in. This would be the first of two cabins that the kinfolk planned to raise for us. Later that day Tim pulled me aside and said, "Ed, isn't there some way we can help to repay these generous people for all that they've done for us.î

I felt the same way, of course, and thought of the Bell Medallion, as if once one had experienced its power it was impossible to forget its potential any more than to forget the metallic taste it left on the back of the tongue or the cold arcs of electricity it shot through the body or the occasional distant sound of alchemists laughing and calling its name. How could one not think of it? He who carries it becomes torn within himself and is set on a path of collision with the ancient struggle between corruption and justice. In that sense, the Bell Medallion is a mirror of humanityís own struggle.

Could we use the Bell Medallion to create good and particularly redistribute wealth to those in need, first and foremost we and our friends in Smoky Holler?

"We could just steal what we need from the bosses back in Chicago," said Tim.

ìNo, my friend, we cannot steal,î I replied. ìObviously, as time travelers we could resort to unethical behavior, theft, or other illegal pursuits, but this wouldn't be a wise or ethical direction for us.î

ìLetís perform and sell our music. I wondered where and how, and how much could we get?î

 Julia had introduced us to many musicians in the area. At this point, Tim and I had played with musicians from two eras -- ragtimers, blues men, pop singers, mountain pickers and eventually we would add rock stylings from the future. Now with Julia and Ira in our group, Eddies of the Wind would again appeared on marquees.

We performed at all of the local mountain shindigs and at the downtown juke joints. Free from the Chicago bosses, we could now own, perform, and record our music without fear of copyright theft. We worked for hours on our songs and musicianship and plotted and replotted our musical direction. But in terms of income, it was not immediately promising.

ìWe canít get much here or in Chicago, at least not these days,î I said.

We began to kick around ideas. ìThen what about the future? Why donít we perform there?"

Timís words lingered in the air for a moment, and then they sunk in.

"Economic growth raises the level of wages and the cost of goods over time,î I said. ìWhat if we were to work in the future and live in the past?î

"Thatís it, Ed! We'll perform in the future and travel back to the holler and weíll all live like kings!î

Just as I was growing excited about making a legal fortune, I suddenly realized it wouldnít work.

ìAll of the coins and paper money would be dated in the future. We'd be considered counterfeiters, and stupid ones at that,î I said.

Tim sat down and put his head in his hands. A long pause followed, and then he slowly raised his head and looked at me. "GOLD!"

"What about gold?î he said. ìThere ain't no markings on that. We could take our performance money and buy gold. We could even melt it down for that matter.î

Indeed we could. It sounded like a brilliant idea. We began to dance around the campfire, hooting and hollering in celebration of the possibilities.

ìFirst letís go into the future and have a look around,î I said. ìAt least we can find out if this is even possible."
 

9
 

The very next day Tim and I dialed the coordinates into the Bell Medallion and leaped into the future. We found a world of magnificent machines and interesting inventions, but what we found most of all was music. Music that was free! Music had evolved in many ways, but the small combo was still the favored vehicle for live performance. Of course, we would need to update our repertoire because nobody listened to ragtime anymore, but what impressed us most was we could hear echoes of so many styles of music mixed together in the modern sound -- blues, jazz, ragtime, rock, country, reggae, rap, jungle drumming from old New Orleans and Congo Square, and more, all of it from the past but also a part of the future.

We also found that gold could be easily purchased in nice, neat little bars. Gold at the time traded for about $650 dollars an ounce. Weíd use our performance wages to purchase the gold bars, transport them back in time to the holler, and live comfortable lives with our friends. Weíd also use the gold to purchase land that would be owned by our friends, so theyíd never again have to work for a wage.

We planned a test to see if we could actually transport Eddies of the Wind to the future, perform, purchase gold, and bring it back to the holler. We'd first have to write some modern songs and figure out how to present ourselves. We rehearsed and performed for Rainbow and his clan. The addition of Julia and Ira had turned us into a whirlwind of sonic thunder.

The band transported to the year 2008. A small speakeasy, or nightclub, booked our combo for a weekend. After two nights, we made enough to purchase one gold bar. Everything  worked perfectly. For several months, we traveled back and forth using our storage cave as our time transport station. We stashed the gold bars in the dark crevices of the cave. After a few months we had acquired more than thirty gold bars.  At approximately $70 an ounce in 1949, that came to roughly $2,000.
 
The band had been working hard, so we decided to take a few weeks off. One day we were relaxing outside our cabins by the pone when we could hear Rainbow popping and sputtering up the woodland road. Weíd been gone so much we hadnít seen much of him lately.

"Letís give him his surprise!" Tim yelled to me across the camp and headed toward the cave.

Rainbow got out of his truck and said, "You boys look happier than a tick. Whatís got you in such high spirits?"

 ìTim and I wanted to give you and your clan something in return for all this kindness youíve showed us."

"We found ourselves some jobs,î I continued. ìJobs in the future making a great deal of money playing music."
"Jobs?" "In the future", Rainbow raised a brow.

"Ain't gonna make much playiní that stuff around here, thatís for sure," laughed Rainbow.

"Yes, thatís true,î I agreed, ìbut in the future, ëaround hereí ain't exactly the same, and we've come up with a scheme to show you all our gratitude."

Rainbow immediately objected and said, ìNow all that kindness was cuz you boys needed it, not cuz we're a-looking for anything in return.""Folk around here have grown quite fond of you fellers anyways."

Just then Tim walked up with a heavy, wooden box in his arms.  He opened lid and there they were -- thirty gold bars, all shiny in the sun.

"We'd like you to accept our good fortune as yours," he said.

"Well, bust my buttons. Thatís gold?" exclaimed Rainbow.

ìYes, it is. And its yours," said Tim.

Rainbow turned away as his eyes welled up. He had spent his life doing for others and may never have had anyone do so much for him.

"Why I've never even seen a gold bar before,î said Rainbow as he picked one up. "It sure is heavy. Well I'll be, look at that." He held it up and turned it around looking at it from all angles as his eyes were bedazzled by the glimmering metal in the sun.

ìNow, just where did you boys get these and where am I gonna cash it in?î he said suddenly. ìI canít do it around here or I'll have every county sheriff, bandits of all sorts knockin on my doorstep."

"You'll travel to a large city, sell the gold there so no one local gets wind of it," said Tim. "Atlanta would be a good place, and you certainly can afford the train tickets now."

We all laughed and busted out a jig and a new jug of shine. "Gosh boys, I won't have to cook moonshine anymore, what'll I do with myself," laughed Rainbow.

"Spend your gold," Tim answered.

In a fraction of a second, a life or lives can change, for worse or even for the better. Sometimes things just fall your way.

"Once you get the gold cashed in, Rainbow, we've got a plan that will make us rich beyond our wildest dreams," I said. Rainbow cocked an eyebrow, "I'm still listeniní."

"Well, we can buy land here that we know will be valuable in the future. Weíll buy it for pennies now of what itís gonna be worth in 50 years. Your grandchildren and our grandchildren will inherit wealth that will appreciate over time. And on top of that, its not illegal, yet."

"Time travelers might even buy licenses for this kind of thing in the future, like a driverís license," said Tim.

Rainbow sat down and took off his sweat-drenched hat. "Well, I gotta tell ya, I don't know exactly how that thing you got works but it sure is some dandy trick. Are ya sure we ain't gonna get caught at nothiní?" Rainbow was always cautious and looking at every angle.

In the next few months we amassed a small fortune. No one in the large cities around us suspected a thing with our gold trading and land purchases. Some land we would buy people would ask, ìWhat would you ever do with that swamp?î Little did they know that in 50 years it would be an industrial park.

Rainbow's kinfolk were getting a little taste of the American dream. No more were the jokes about no shoes or hand-me-down apparel or hillbilly hicks, and the young and unborn ones would live a wealthy life and never know ridicule. The clan built new homes, spacious and with all the comforts.

For weeks we stacked gold bars in the cave, and Rainbow collected them every couple of months before  he and his cousins traveled to convert them into cash. We continued to buy land, and some of it we sold in the future at reasonable prices through a mortgage and real estate company we set up in the year 2000. We were well on our way to having enough to stop all the time traveling.

Of course, the blessings of the Bell Medallion always came with the possibility of a curse, which could always be traced to peopleís greed and envy.

"Where was them hill people gettiní all that money?" people asked.

"Rainbow must be cookiní and selliní an awful lot a that ëshine," the city folk would say.

Dagun and the Sheriffís trips through the woods hunting for moonshine stills became more frequent but even less successful. They knew Rainbow was up to something that was making him rich, and they wanted a piece of the action. The clan kids had clothes now, the men were driving new cars, their houses were paid for, their wives were all happy, and it all happened without anyone at the bank knowing a thing.

Evil again peered from the eye of the serpent. I had seen the look before, and Dagun had it. He was just smart enough to know something was up, but easily dumb enough to walk right into it and not know what he was dealing with.

One day when Eddies of the Wind was performing in the future, Rainbow and a cousin were at the camp making moonshine. He made only modest batches now, just enough to supply the kinfolk, and some habits are hard to break. Shortly after they began the drive home, Dagun and Sheriff Landers pulled them over for a traffic violation, although strictly speaking traffic violations don't exist in the mountains.

"I know you're doiní somethiní illegal, Rainbow,î said Dagun. ìYa got money comin outta yer pockets, yer kids have nice clothesÖî

"And whatís wrong with that?" Rainbow interrupted.

"You ain't hurtiní like the rest of us!"

"Ask your boss for a raise." Rainbow chided!

The altercation didnít go any farther that day, but later Rainbow warned us all to be careful and listen for sounds in the woods.

It was the old, familiar story beginning again, only in a different time and place. The Bell Medallion unleashes the same poisons no matter where it lands or when. Greed and even murder float in its wake as the lust for wealth darkens the true nature of the human heart.
 

10
 

The days were growing shorter, and the leaves in the mountain hills were brilliant, as if a heavenly artist raised brush to pallet, held a thumb to the horizon and painted the hills a patchwork of colors. The most brilliant oranges, yellows and reds accented the foothills rising up to the mountain. As a group of us trudged through the woods looking for deer, the woodlands were alive like fire as the sun shone through the leaves and cast colors onto the forest floor, illuminating our enchanted Appalachian world.

A group of us were hunting as we nestled down and waited for our prey to present themselves. Rainbow was not with us on this day, but he had taught us well. He'd taught us how to follow deer, observe them and gather only what deer would forage.

Just then we heard leaves rustle far off in the woods, and then out of the thickets and over the old coal mine came Julia, running as if she were being chased by bear or a woodland spirit. She collapsed as she reached our deer stand.

We offered her a water bottle, but she pushed it away and could barely spit out a word.
"Rainbow!"

"What about him, Julia?" I said as I held her up. "Where is he"?

"He's been shot. They killed him," she blurted.

"Who killed him, Julia?"

ìWe don't know. We found him up by the moonshine camp, laying outside the cave. He's been shot up! He's dead!" she bawled.

I was in shock. I immediately  of course thought of the Bell Medallion. In my mind it was to blame for all of this.

We gathered our guns and made our way out of the barrow, past the coal mine and mountain cliffs and up to the moonshine camp. As we ran, we kept a watchful eye on the woods, wary of an ambush or sniper. We entered the camp as light smoke rose from an extinguished campfire. Sure enough, as we rounded the entrance to the cave, there was Rainbow with blood soaking his chest and his hand covering the hole in his heart. Julia wailed again.

Tim tried to resuscitate Rainbow to no avail. He was dead. The gold bars were gone. It was robbery. Dagun did this.

Tim took off his hat, threw it on the ground and wiped his brow with his forearm. We stood silent for a moment, all of us stunned. I knew that the loss of Rainbow's life was the spell cast by the Bell Medallion, which had taken so many lives through its history, many of them patriarchs just like Rainbow only trying to ensure their familiesí survival. I felt we had marked Rainbow for death the day we arrived here.

"We have to go back, Ed," said Tim, his eyes full of tears of fire. "We'll go back and make this right, bring Rainbow back, then bury Dagun and his men. Then we'll bury that damn time machine once and for all." Tim began to look around for the Bell Medallion.

"Wait Tim. We can't just do this without a plan," I said. "If we just bring Rainbow back, the problem will still be here. Dagun will still be hunting us and Rainbow's clan. It will even be worse than before, since now Rainbow will have returned from the dead. We're sure to be branded as witch doctors and occultists.î

Julia was delirious and wailing.  I pulled her away from Rainbow.

"We can bring him back. We will bring him back, I promise," I told her, then I turned to Tim. Within minutes we had worked out a plan.

That night Julia and her cousins used the mountain grapevine to put the word out that Rainbow was only wounded, that only part of his loot had been grabbed, and that he wanted a meeting with Dagun. It doesn't take long to get the word out in these hills, so in a matter of hours Dagun was alerted. A meeting with Dagun was set for midnight the following night at the moonshine camp.
 

11
 

As midnight neared on that fateful evening we all paced anxiously around the campfire, drinking coffee from tin cups and chewing tobacco. There was an edge on everyone. As we sat in the light of the flames, we spoke of Rainbow as if he had only gone on a journey and would soon walk into the campsite.

From the woods we heard the sound of a truck clawing its way up the miners road. Bumping and banging into the camp, it was Dagun and his henchmen armed with shotguns, ropes, torches, and Bowie knives. All loud and laughing, hooting and hollering. The truck came to a halt and they dismounted with brash and blaring voices fueled by moonshine, probably some of Rainbow's. They seemed on a drunken hunt for a raccoon or other creature whose blood they craved.

Dagun climbed out of the truck gloating. ìWhere's Rainbow?î he asked immediately.

Charley Hudson, a distant cousin of Rainbowís but next in line to run the clan, spoke up.

ìHe's under the weather, Dagun. Or ain't you heard?"

"We heard Rainbow shot himself by accident, up here drinkiní all that fine moonshine," Dagun smiled to his crew. ìWe also heard he was deader than a possum chokiní on flies in the highway."

"Itís gonna take more than one a yer punks to put Rainbow down," said Charley, who was known for his temper, the opposite of calm, controlled Rainbow.

"Well boys, if Rainbow isn't here and he sent word to commence this here meetiní, what is it we'se meetin about?"

"Since somebody took a shot at Rainbow, weíre offeriní you a deal for protection,î said Charley more calmly.

A greedy smile spread across Dagun's face.  ìWell, Charley, how much are we talkiní here?î

"Rainbow's prepared to give ya 20 percent of his liquor business if you provide him, his family and his liquor runs with protection,î said Charley as he put his hat on.

ì20 percent?î Dagun said, and spat a wad of tobacco juice at Charleyís boots and then stared at him.  ìI wants 50 percent.î

ìDang it, Dagun, we can't give ya no 50 percent. You're gonna have to be reasonable.î

Dagun grabbed Charley by the shirt and spit out his demand. "Take it or leave it, dead man. Now I want my money. Get it!"

"We ain't got money, Dagun. We got gold bars minted by the U.S. government, back in there. Letís all go take a look,î he said, pointing at the cave.

Dagun wasnít known for his intelligence, but even he could smell a trap.

ìBring it out here,î he ordered.

Charley started to object again because the plan was to go to the cave, but I nodded to him to go along. Charley motioned for his boys to fetch a box of gold bars.

They returned with an old oak box, and when they opened it the moonlight hit several bars of the gleaming bullion that has mesmerized the human race for centuries. Everyone just stared at it, and Dagunís face fell into a childlike bedazzlement.

With everyone staring at the box, I activated the Bell Medallion.  The spherical arcing began, everyone froze in time as our DNA broke down, our blood ran cold, and our eyes briefly fluttered before we all passed out.

We awoke slowly in 1910, and as soon as we could the Rainbow clan, Tim, and I lit out into the woods leaving Dagun and his men alone and confused. Our group met at an old Indian rock house in the woods near the bluff. We counted on stranding our nemesis in a place and time of no return.

We set the Bell Medallion for our return to the year 1949 a few hours before Rainbowís murder and drove immediately to a spot on the miners road to wait for him to drive up in his old Ford truck. We heard the footsteps of men scuffling a leaf alarm through the woods. Birds quieted. These were hunter assassins searching for Rainbow. An hour went by, the footsteps of assassins faded.

We heard Rainbowís beloved Ford pickup truck pop and grind up the mountain trail. Jumping in front of his truck with jubilant greetings, Charley and his brothers and cousins almost got run over by Rainbow.

"Dag'nap it ya crazy loons!" Rainbow yelled as he blew his horn. "What in tarnation has got into yuns?"

We climbed into the truck, turned it around and headed down into the hollers. Rainbow was shocked and dismayed to hear our story. At first he thought we were playing a joke on him.

"Ya mean I was dead?"

As long as he had known Tim and I strange things had occurred when we were around. When we arrived in the hollers, Rainbow knew by the looks on the faces of his kinfolk that he had truly died and been resurrected. A quiet fell over each member of the clan, and each one individually made his or her way to Rainbow's cabin to witness this miracle. We announced that Rainbow was never really dead, that we had to make it look like he was to fool some bad people, which in a way might have been half true.

For now at least we were safe from the danger of greed and envy. At least for now that is, as long as the Bell Medallion is never found and this powerful mystery is left dark and cacooned away, within its enigmatic catacomb. For somewhere in the crevasses of those enchanted mountains of southeastern Tennessee, Eddies of the Wind has laid to rest and forever buried the secret of the Bell Medallion.