Chapter 5
The fall faded. The trees turned bright red and yellow, then just as quickly evolved into tinted rust, hanging gently on their branches.
Linda graciously offered JT a job at the diner while he waited for Michael and Jenny to help him save his grandfather's estate from being sold at auction in about a month.
Every part of JT's life so far, at every turn, had become some sort of choice followed by some sort of fight. He had just made the choice to save his grandfather's house, now he had to fight for it, not long after he’d actually been in a raging battle, bloodied and fighting for his life. He needed to start deciding what battles were worth fighting.
The days passed uneventfully, which made a nice change for JT. The locals seemed to realize that JT and Michael weren't luring people to the old house and deliberately trying to kill them—or whatever other crazy things they thought. That was nice. It was also nice that Linda had the best diner around. With plenty of vacationers still in the area, many ate at the diner and seeing new faces was good for JT and Michael. Some of the older, hardened townsfolk still gave them dismissive looks, but, all in all, JT and Michael faded into the background of everyday life in the little coastal town.
JT thought the townsfolks’ foolish feelings toward the two of them might rear their ugly heads when the auction of Warhead Dale began, but, for the time being, things were peaceful.
JT was almost adamant about not visiting the old house by the ocean. His last trip through his grandfather's mahogany door had left him uneasy about returning. He could not think of getting caught up in some other exploit, especially by accident.
The possibility of totally regaining his memory also frightened him. Would he be able to process a total recall of his life if it happened maybe by stumbling on some old relic or picture? He was risking that by going through his grandfather's journal, but going to the house as well might be more than he could take. He terrified himself by imagining the scenarios that might confront him in his restored memory.
JT looked at his grandfather’s journal on his night table. He knew that he must have read it a million times before. As he read it, he felt the real threat of his memories flooding back into his brain, uncontrolled, but as he flipped through it, it felt like an old friend that kept him company under the buttery beams of the moon after a long day washing dishes and putting up food.
Propped against his pillow, wrapped in blankets on his bed in the back room of Linda's diner, JT cracked open the weathered diary.
JT found it funny to read the words “the Munch” in the tainted, worn pages, but the captain of the Mary Maid did not share the sentiment. Ol' Captain Luke had not particularly cared for the nickname; in his own words, it was “absolutely crude and uncivilized.” JT could almost hear the grit of his grandfather's teeth as the word slipped from his lips.
It was hot, sticky, and just plain abysmal when I first got wind of the man we would hunt. We landed on the shore of the Gulf of Guinea in the heat and heart of July. Though my engineer devised a design to include air conditioning in the quarters of the ship, the daily duties of a ship’s crew force us to endure the oppressive warmth of the season on the deck. Waiting for a scheduled courier to deliver our orders only made this task much more unbearable.
Only the Almighty could have created the land we find ourselves in, tough and riddled with beautiful overgrowth in colors I rarely see in northern parts of the world. Its beauty is incomparable. I find it hard to believe that bloody war, conflict, and a madman can reside in such scenery, but they do.
When the courier arrived, he was a very young boy—approximately eleven years of age. I deduced that he’d been chosen for his young age. The information he gripped in his hand must be valuable enough for the sender to choose a young boy who would not read, much less comprehend the note he was tasked to deliver. The boy clearly had more interest in his compensation, for he bounced up the ramp of the Mary Maid, oblivious to any danger in the the note he carried or any danger he might be in himself.
I must say that I was ignorant of the note’s danger at the time, though I opened it as soon as my chaplain sent the boy off with a basket of fruit. When I read the first line of the dispatch, I fully became aware of the risk that lies before us.
Dear reader, I will not divulge the full contents of the letter, for I burned it most directly, as the author commanded at the end. I will, however, reveal the first line. I warn that it is graphic in nature, but I feel you must be advised of the nature of this journey if you are to continue to read. After the usual introduction, though I do not know the name of the man who sent the letter, the first line floored me and rattled me to my core, “The man you will hunt, known only and disgustingly as ‘the Munch,’ has been implicated in the brutal murder, burning, and displacement of no less than one hundred thousand souls.
I can only imagine what this monster may be like in the flesh. I also hope that my crew and I have the fortitude to see this task through to the end. I am also praying that the enemy we will face is human.
I only say that, because, if he is human, then he can die like one—and he will be killed like one.
I shall not write anymore today. I must think on this entire endeavor wholeheartedly.
JT shut the journal, but only for a second. He glanced out at the bright night. The moon’s beams washed over him. He wondered if adventures like his grandfather’s were happening in the world on that very night. The night, peaceful to him at that moment, might not have been so for others. Real danger existed in the world. He felt safe, but at that moment he was sure someone was meeting their end or embarking on some whirlwind task. If only the moon could talk, JT thought. I’m sure it could answer a lot of questions.
JT cracked his grandfather’s journal open again, picking up where he left off. He read entries where his grandfather wrote out his thoughts about continuing to hunt down the Munch. His grandfather wrote that he learned that the villain of the story earned his nickname for what he did to villages and towns he encountered.
An English translator, not fully fluent in the local language, arrived at a small remote village, which the Munch had destroyed. The one small girl who survived the ordeal knew no word to describe the horror unleashed on this mostly peaceful village and its residents. Loosely transformed into English by the translator, the young witness, still shocked by what she had seen, described the evil man and his followers as monsters descending from the heavens like bulls, munching them like grass and spitting them out. The nickname stuck.
JT’s grandfather, nervous and absolutely horrified at the idea of chasing such a man, knew that if he did nothing, no one and no thing could or would stop such a character. The British army had pulled out of the area some time before and was not interested in meddling in the affairs of the newly formed African republics, despite the pleas from the population for the British and Europeans to track the monster down.
In the end, Ol’ Captain Luke threw out his concerns. He and his crew would pursue the evil incarnate only known as the Munch.