Follow
Willie Tripper didn’t understand how, but it had happened again: he’d jumped ahead in time. It had been the summer of 2020 and he had turned up in the middle of a huge protest in Portland, Oregon. Other times, he jumped to 1968. It was interesting because both periods were full of people in the streets angry about how black folks were treated. That’s how he thought of them now, not as “colored'” or “Negros”. It just seemed right to him. He wasn’t there long this time, maybe 30 minutes. But he saw a lot. People throwing rocks, police cracking heads with sticks. It was a mess and he was glad to be out of there. At least he had been before he returned and realized his predicament.
He returned to the present just in time to see the rest of the wagon train his family had been a part of since they left Missouri disappear over a rise. He watched for another minute before taking stock of his situation. Before him were three freshly dug graves. One was adult-sized, the other two for kids. Must be Mama and the twins, he thought. His father had passed away a few days earlier (he thought. Things got weird during his time slips) after accidentally shooting himself while stuffing a pistol into his belt. The cholera must have gotten the rest of them. He remembered a conversation with his mother where he’d told her she should boil the water.
“Why would I do that?” she’d said.
“Because it’ll kill the bugs, Mama,” he’d said. “That’s what the doctor fellow told me. He said if people on the Oregon Trail had only known to boil their water before drinking it so many of us wouldn’t have died.”
“Is this another one of your outlandish stories, William Tripper?” she said with a very stern look. “What did I tell you about those?”
He looked down and kicked what he thought was a dirt clod but turned out to be a buffalo chip. “That I’d go to Hell if I didn’t stop lying.”
“Um hmm,” she said. “And, here you are again claiming that you jumped forward in time. When was it?”
Keeping his head down, he mumbled, “1968.”
“1968,” she repeated. “A hundred years into the future.” She thumped him on the head. “If you’re going to lie, at least make a lie I can believe. Now, go take care of the mules. They’ve had a hard day.”
Now, he looked down at her grave and said, “You should have listened, Mama.” Then, he turned to see what gear was left. It wasn’t much. The rest of the group had obviously gone through the family’s belongings to see what they could use and left the junk they no longer wanted behind. He had a rickety wagon, nowhere near as nice as the Studebaker they’d had. This one was an old Murphy and it looked like it was just before falling apart. The mule team his father had been so proud of had been replaced by two sickly oxen that looked to be on their last legs. In fact, as he stood there, one of them fell dead on the spot. He wanted to get angry but he couldn’t. Other families had died along the way and his family had certainly grabbed their fair share of surplus equipment.
“Oh well,” he said. “It is what it is.”
“You know, they didn’t have to leave me sitting out on the prairie all alone,” he said to the ox as they made their way along. “They could have stuck me in the back of a wagon until I came around or something.”
The ox just ambled along, making Willie wish he had a saddle. The blankets he’d thrown over the animal didn’t cushion his rear from its bony back. At all. And there were no stirrups so he couldn’t lift himself up and get some relief that way, either. He really wished he had one of the mules, they’d have given a much better ride. But, he didn’t. He also didn’t have a decent rifle or knife. Well, he did have those items, but they weren’t worth much. Someone had taken a very nice Hawken his father picked up in St. Louis and left an old flintlock. The Bowie knife that was his pride and joy had been exchanged with another whose blade was rusted and so dull he doubted it would cut hot butter.
“Boy, those jokers really did me dirty,” he said. “Guess they figured I wouldn’t last long enough to need any of that stuff.”
He did have a little food, some jerky, and hard tack that had somehow been missed, and an old wooden canteen. Luckily it had been full of water because there wasn’t a stream in sight where he was. He had, however, taken the time to boil that water before heading out.
“I might not live much longer, but I ain’t going out like that,” he told the ox.
He had just come back from 1968 when he first saw the Indians. Actually “native Americans”. He struggled with that more than with “black”. It was a jarring return, too. One minute, he was sitting in his living room, watching that magic box they called a “television” and the next, he was out on the prairie astride his ox, Blue, watching a band of natives sitting on a rise watching him.
“Wonder what they want?” he said.
He found himself talking out loud more and more lately. Whether to himself, Blue, or just to hear a human voice, he couldn’t say. Before he could answer, he slipped in time again.
This time, it was different. In the past, he’d always landed in a place that, no matter how futuristic, was at least vaguely recognizable as Earth. But now, he found himself in a space that was as close to nothing as he could imagine. It was all grayish-white and gauzy looking, like being inside a fog bank, but with no shapes lurking inside. It was just. . . blank. As he looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings, he noticed a figure approaching.
“Hello,” he called. But whoever, or whatever, it was, remained silent.
As he watched, the figure slowly began to take on more shape and he realized it was a man. An old man. And, he was dressed like no one he’d ever seen before. The first part of the man’s outfit he could make out sat on top of his head: an old beaver hat with a feather stuck to the beaded band, all of which had seen better days.
“Okay, never seen that before,” he muttered.
As the man came closer, Willie saw that he was wearing a plaid flannel shirt and pants cut off just above the knees that were held up by suspenders running over his bare chest. Instead of boots or mocassins, he wore a pair of Roman sandals that tied just above the ankles. It was, to say the least, an eccentric outfit. As the old fellow came to a stop in front of him, Willie noticed that there were brightly colored symbols painted up his legs, into his pants, and up his chest, ending as they curled around his neck. It was, to say the least, an eccentric outfit. As surprised as he was, Willie was even more surprised when the man spoke.
“Hello, Willie,” he said in a rich, sonorous voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Willie wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by the man’s voice or that he knew his name. Neither seemed to fit the situation.
“Yo— you know me?” Willie stammered.
“Well, of course I do,” the old fellow laughed. “I made you, didn’t I?”
“What?” Willie exclaimed. “What do you mean, you ‘made me’?”
“Just exactly that,” he replied. “I made you the same as I made everything in the world.”
It began to dawn on Willie who he was talking to, but he thought it best to confirm his belief. “Are you. . . God?”
“You got it on the first try,” the old man said. “I’m impressed. It takes most people much longer to get their head around it.”
Willie felt a surge of pride at the knowledge that he had impressed God. But it was quickly replaced by anxiety when he remembered all the Bible stories he’d heard. When God appeared to someone, He usually had something for them to do and it was usually hard. He didn’t want to be rude but thought it would be best to satisfy his curiosity right away. “Why are you here?”
A beaming smile broke out over the Lord’s face. “That’s what I love about you, Willie. You always get straight to the point. No beating around the bush for you.”
“Uh huh,” Willie said, skeptically. He was no stranger to being buttered up. His mother had been a pro.
God smiled at him a bit more and Willie almost snapped. Just before he could reach out and grab the old man, God said, “I have a job for you, Willie Tripper.”
“Okaaay,” Willie said, getting more and more wary of this weird old fellow. “What is it?”
“Feed my sheep,” the Lord said.
“What???”
“Feed my sheep,” God repeated.
For a moment, Willie forgot who he was talking to. “Feed your sheep? That doesn’t make any sense! Which sheep are yours? All of them? If not, how do I know which ones are?”
God stretched out his walking stick and poked Willie in the chest, saying one last time, “Feed my sheep, Willie.” Then, he turned and began walking away.
Willie panicked. “Wait, don’t go! I don’t understand. Please!” But the Lord just kept on walking into the mist. Then, as quick as he’d gotten there, Willie was back on the prairie, astride Blue and staring at a group of Indians.
It had taken him a while, but Willie finally decided that “Feed my sheep” meant he was to start preaching. To anyone and everyone he met. Sometimes, he included “anything” in his audience, preaching to rocks, grass, tumbleweeds, and more. And, his time slips didn’t stop as he preached. Once, he had found a herd of buffalo, dismounted, and began preaching to them. As he stood there, shouting and gesticulating as wildly as any of the revival preachers his mother had taken him to see (his father wasn’t much on religion), it happened. One minute, he was on the Great Plains in 1865, the next he was on a 2020 street corner in Detroit Michigan, standing on a box with a Bible in his hand. He never missed a beat.
“There are three things I want you to know,” he shouted. “First, there is a Hell. Second, it is a place of fire and brimstone. Third, you will all end up there if you don’t repent!” The crowd was sparse that day and it ignored him, flowing around his box like water around a rock in the middle of a river. As he surveyed the few people who were out, he noticed they were all wearing masks. He also held one in his hand, apparently having taken it off so he could project better. Must be during the pandemic, he thought, but before the riots since it’s calm. He went for a bit longer before deciding to pack it in.
“Repent!” he yelled one last time just to make sure they got the message.
He stepped down from the box and picked up the hat on the ground before him. It was a slim haul, a few coins, a $1 bill, and some trash. Oh well, he thought, could’ve been worse. Once, someone had left him a used condom. He shoved the money in his pocket and began walking. He had no idea where he was going, just that this seemed the right direction. As turned the corner at the end of the block, he found himself back on the Montana plains, looking at an empty field. The buffalo, like his human audience, had moved on.
Sometimes, he preached to living, breathing humans. They were Indians (he just couldn’t bring himself to call them “native Americans”), but he believed they counted. At first, they kept their distance, but after a bit, they began coming closer. A couple of mornings, he even woke up to find small trinkets or offerings of food and water, like he was some sort of holy man. They hadn’t left anything in almost a week, though, and he wondered if it had to do with him spooking some deer one group was stalking. Probably not, he thought, and even if it did, wasn’t your eternal soul worth more than some venison? He saw a band up ahead, sitting on a small rise, and made for them, hoping to get in a sermon before they moved on. When they noticed him, however, they galloped off a bit.
“Well, that’s rude,” he said to Blue. “No worries though. We’ll just go over there.”
Once again, the band took off. He kept after them, though. This time, as he approached, a couple of the young men dismounted and began shouting and waving. That was odd. They’d never done that before. He reined Blue in and dismounted, figuring that if he could hear them, they could hear him. He dug through his saddlebag for the Bible he’d found, then stood up straight and cleared his voice.
“Repent, sinners, that ye may avoid the torment of Hell through that fire and brimstone that surely awaits ye.” He had no more gotten that final “ye” out of his mouth when they began throwing rocks, dirt clods, and even buffalo chips at him. Something was up and he wasn’t sure what. But, he did know that getting pelted with dried buffalo shit wasn’t something he wanted to stick around for, so he climbed back onto Blue and rode off.
It had taken a whole month, but he’d finally made it to Virginia City. He hadn’t entered the town but had set up on the outskirts to preach to everyone passing by. He’d been here almost a month, and traffic seemed to go in spurts. A wagon train would come in and he’d have a good-sized audience for a few days. Then, they’d all disperse to farms, ranches, or the gold fields. After that, things would be quiet. Then, another party would arrive and he’d drag out his box, throw down his hat, and start preaching again. His time slips continued, and he jumped between 1968, 2020, and the present. He was in the middle of one of these renewed sermons when it happened again. Only this time, he was back in that “nothing” place where he’d first encountered God and gotten his commission to preach the Gospel.
“Back again,” he said. “Wonder if I’ll see God this time.” Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, he saw a figure approaching him. This time, though, it wasn’t the weird old guy in the funny hat. It was a tall, majestic man with a long beard and flowing white robes. In one hand, he held a golden staff. In the other, several lightning bolts. The closer he came, though, Willie began to pick out similarities between this fellow and the old codger who came to him on the plains. When the man finally spoke, all doubt was removed. It was God. And, this time, He looked like Willie thought God was supposed to look.
“Willie,” God said with that deep, rich voice he remembered so well. “What are you doing?”
That caught him off guard. Wasn’t God omniscient, he thought? Shouldn’t He know what I’m doing? “I— uh, I, I’m. . . preaching. Like you told me.”
“Like I told you?” God said, his brow wrinkling. “I didn’t tell you to preach.”
“Yes, you did,” Willie said, more than a little worried about arguing with the Almighty.
“No, I think I’d remember something like that. Hmm, let’s check the Prophets List.” God reached into his robe and pulled out a scroll. He unrolled it and scanned it for a few minutes. “Nope,” He said. “You’re not on here.”
“What do you mean I’m not on there!?” Willie demanded. “You told me to feed your sheep! So, I’m feeding your sheep.”
At that, the Lord threw back His head and let loose a thundering laugh. “That didn’t mean become a preacher. I’ve got way too many of those already and, frankly, most of them are crooked.” He stepped over and placed a paternal arm around Willie’s shoulders. “No, son, I meant that literally. Feed sheep.”
Willie, still not getting it, looked at God, puzzled. “Huh?”
God shook his head. “I guess I have to spell it out for you. Raise sheep. Take care of them, feed them, protect them. You know, become a shepherd.”
Willie was stunned. “Really?” he said. “Take care of sheep, not preach?”
“Exactly,” God said. “Take care of sheep, not preach.” He gave Willie a little squeeze. “I mean, you are not cut out for the preaching game.”
“Yeah, I kind of wondered about that when the Indians started throwing stuff at me,” Willie said, sheepishly. “I haven’t been having much success preaching to white folks, either.”
“I know,” God said. “Look, when you get back, just sit tight and I’ll send a guy around to take you on and teach you the shepherding business. Okay?” Willie nodded. “Are you hungry?”
“So hungry.”
“Okay, ” I’ll have someone bring you a bite to eat, too.” Willie nodded again. “It’s gonna be okay. Just chill for a bit and everything will be okay.”
Six Months Later
Willie was out with his herd, enjoying the peace and quiet of the plains. He had all but forgotten his brief career as a preacher, that episode of his life steadily fading away. He did, however, remember his family and missed them all dearly. But, God had taken care of that, too. Willie still slipped through time but it was different now. Instead of the tumultuous times he used to visit, he now went back to his earlier childhood days, helping his parents and playing with his little sisters. It wasn’t the same as if they were here, now, but it would do. It would do.
