When I awoke, I was lying unclothed under a woolen-type blanket covered by dried salt hay, in what seemed to be a small barn with extremely low rafters. In fact, I could easily see that I was not going to be able to stand in the place. There was a distinct odor of herbs, and a slight haze of wood smoke hung near the ceiling. My head felt like I had spent the prior day drinking rum at the local tavern. I tried moving, but a pain in my left arm froze me in place.
I looked over and saw that my arm was wrapped tightly in a muslin cloth and bound to a long plank, which was, in turn, attached to the floor. I had an immediate vision of my ordeal in the surf, and the spar that had smashed my arm, breaking it in several places. I now remembered, too, the little people who had pulled me from the sea. I knew this small building must be their home or barn, and that they had set my arm and had so attached the plank to ensure I could not move it out of place. The room was lit by two odd looking glass lanterns, unlike any lantern I had seen before. Along the wall to my right were long lengths of line, carefully coiled, and piles of what looked to be dark gray blankets, folded very neatly. Above the coiled line were various blocks, deadeyes, belaying pins, braces, and parrals. It was a fine collection of various ships' rigging. Four large sea chests were along the other wall. A fire pit was in front of me and the back wall I could not see, as it was well back and very dark.
It wasn't long before I heard voices, though their talk I could barely understand. Whether it was a very odd type of old English, or a blend of English and some other language, I was not certain. Three little men came into view, and since I did not see a door open, I had to believe they were in the back of that room right along. They were scarcely three feet tall, and each looked much like the other, although they could be set apart. The one closest to me motioned to my arm, and the others came over and released the cloth from the plank. The one spoke and to the best I recall said this:
"Woken you'st be."
He then gave me a drink, which tasted somewhat like old and bitter tea, and then went on.
"The dram of brew she made hither does't now taketh the senses, ye shall see more clearly by the next moon rising."
I remember little else. My vision became very blurry and I slumped back into sleep.
I have no idea how long I slept, but upon waking found myself now fully dressed in my own clothes and laying in a soft pile of feathers and hay. My arm no longer hurt, nor was it wrapped. My ragged shirt had been repaired, and I was wearing an odd, but comfortable, sort of boots. The sun was shining through a small opening across from where I lay. I felt somewhat drunk and had to focus my vision.
This room was much smaller, and it was empty other than the pile of feathers and hay. The ceiling was made of what looked to be cedar planks and here and there were spaces between the boards beneath which roots were clearly visible. I concluded then that I was in some type of underground pit. When I sat up, my head cleared the ceiling by but a few inches. What looked to be a small door was to my left, and I rolled over on my side to see if I could push it open. There was no resistance to my effort, and I was now looking out at a small clearing amongst very dense thickets. Several little men were using the gray blankets I saw earlier to cover the badly decomposed remains of two seamen. So bad were the remains that the bones of the hands had little flesh left upon them. One of the little men turned to me and said, "Woken you'st be....your sleep was for many days...see a dozen shrouds we hath used this season...the storms taketh many of your people...some not found but by us...we doth bury them near the bluff...the shrouds hide the bones, but will keep the spirit."
The little man gestured for me to come out. I struggled through the small door and when I was finally able to stand it was immediately apparent I had not stood in a long while, as my knees almost gave out beneath me. Two of the men steadied me, and all of them were now laughing. The one, who seemed to be the older, then led me to a path and gave me a small pouch containing a dram of water and some type of herbed bread. He then passed me a staff, and, pointing to the west, told me to follow the path to Kings Highway. I was told not to share my story or their location. He warned that no one would believe me; that they may even term me a mad man. As he headed back toward the others, he turned and shouted, "Nor shall you remember a way back."
Several months later, before I returned to Boston, I walked the highway trying to find that path, hopeful I might thank the little men. I never found its location, despite my leaving a pile of stones at its opening that day.
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