He blinked. Or, tried to. Sticky glue trapped grit and sand in his eyes. Where was he? Groaning, he rubbed his eyes, left first.
Backwards, Nonni said. Unlucky.
He supposed widdershins had finally damned him. Cracking open his eyes, he hastily shut them.
Seconds earlier he and Nonnie were stacking baskets of mussels and berries into his canoe, painstakingly hollowed from a fallen cedar log. 21st century natives, they reinvented an older life and time.
Now all he saw was a cement canoe, Nonni’s fearful shriek echoing as he crossed the divide.
He should have climbed in from the right.