Bystander in Time

by Richard Stockford

  Kneeland shook her head. “I only know that you are in danger. I don’t know how or why, yet.”

  “How do you even know that?” Annie asked.

  “The best way I can explain it is that a friendly entity is using me to pass on a warning to you. It’s vague, but I get the feeling of extreme danger and great urgency. That’s why I left you those notes. I think I can learn more if I know more about what’s happening to you.”

  Dex heaved another sigh and began telling the story from the time he first came to Southwest Harbor. As he got to more recent events, D.J. and Annie added their recollections. It took thirty minutes and at the end, Kneeland sat back in her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. “And you’re sure you’ve never been in Southwest Harbor before?” she asked.

  “Maybe my father brought us here on a day trip when I was a kid,” Dex answered, “but if he did, I have no memory of it.”

  Kneeland nodded. “I know the Simon and Melody and Zachary Taylor. They…” she hesitated, “they are sensitive people, perhaps more perceptive than most. I would be inclined to listen to their advice.” She reached over and pulled a small table closer to her chair. Opening a drawer in its front, she extracted a yellow pad of lined paper and a pencil. “With what you’ve told me, I’d like to see if I can learn more. Please help yourself to more cookies and coffee and relax. I’ll appear to be asleep for a while, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

  Dex looked around, intrigued in spite of his skepticism. “Don’t you need a crystal ball or a Ouija board or something?” he asked.

  “Some mediums use those items, or candles or bowls of water, things to focus their attention on, to clear their minds and increase their sensitivity. I use a deep relaxation and a technique called automatic writing.”

  “Self-hypnosis.” and “What’s automatic writing?” said Annie and D.J. at the same time.

  Kneeland nodded to Annie and to D.J.; “Automatic writing is when I hold a pencil on a piece of paper and go into a sort of trance. Tradition holds that the pencil is controlled by the spirit or entity I have contacted and whatever is written on the paper is a message from them.” To Dex and Annie; “The educated side of me suggests that I’m simply relaxing enough for my subconscious mind to record subliminal perceptions or perhaps premonitions.” She smiled. “Whatever, let’s give it a try, shall we?”

  Kneeland adjusted the table and rested her arm on the arm of her chair with the pencil point held lightly against the paper. She squirmed around a little to get comfortable and then, leaning her head back, closed her eyes.

  The flickering light in the room seemed to dim and Dex and Annie looked at each other as the woman in front of them appeared to fall asleep. Within moments, her features had relaxed and faint snoring sounds were coming from her lips.

  After several minutes, Kneeland frowned as her head shook slightly from side to side and she grimaced as if in pain, a light sheen of sweat suddenly glistening on her face. Then Dex felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as her features relaxed again and the pencil in her hand began a fast scribble on the paper. For long moments the furious scribbling continued, at one point scratching a tear in the paper, until at last the tip snapped in a final flourish and Kneeland’s hand fell still. Moments later, her eyes opened and she smiled at her astonished guests.

  D.J. broke the silence. “Wow that was way cool,” he breathed, “does that always happen?”

  “No dear, sometimes I just have a nap and wake up with a crick in my back from sleeping in the chair,” Kneeland said with a smile. She picked up the pad and tore off the top sheet of paper, studying it briefly before leaning forward to pass it to Dex. “Does any of this mean anything to you?”

  To Dex’s eye, most of the writing on the page was an illegibly scrawl and he shook his head, about to pass it back when a line jumped into focus; ‘danger dexie beware the ring’, he read.

  “Something?” Kneeland asked.

  Dex took a gulp of cold coffee to moisten a suddenly dry mouth. “Dexie,” he said, “my uncle Walter always used to call me Dexie.”

  Annie reached for the paper. “What’s this about a ring?” she asked.

  Dex shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ve got no idea. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Look, there’re other words here too.” Annie was holding the paper up to the light. “I can see ‘letter’ and ‘shark’ and it looks like ‘Dutch’.”

  “Let me see,” said D.J. reaching for the paper. He studied it for a long moment, holding it up to the light as Annie had. “I think this word is ‘Dutchman’,” he said, “and I can see ‘curse’ or maybe ‘cursed’ too.”

  Dex shrugged. “None of that means anything to me.” He looked at Kneeland. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Annie answered. “I think it’s time to sit down with Simon and Melody and try to figure out what Tobias is trying to tell us.”

  Chapter 33

  Once again Dex and D.J. spent a night of fitful, intermittent sleep, waking to a morning dreary with low lying clouds and drizzle. Anxious to get away from the old house, they picked Annie up early and drove to a diner for breakfast and by nine o’clock, they were knocking on the Masters’ door.

  Simon answered the door and led them into the living room where Melody sat in front of a table which held a stack of small bound ledgers. Dex introduced D.J. and she welcomed him with a smile and then went into the kitchen to return a moment later with a tray of coffee and orange juice.

  “We thought we might see you folks this morning,” Simon said. “Made extra coffee, just in case.”

  “I guess I should start by apologizing for my behavior the other night,” Dex said. “I don’t understand what’s happening and frankly I’m a little scared. If it weren’t for the fact that D.J. has heard and seen some of the same things I have, I’d think I was losing my mind.”

  “You have no need to apologize,” Melody said. “We’ve lived with this all our lives and it still seems impossible.”

  “But what is it that seems impossible? Other than our house being haunted, I still don’t know what’s going on,” said Dex.

  Simon and Melody looked at each other. “I don’t know what’s happening at your house,” Simon said, “but maybe Tobias can shed some light on the situation for you.” He lifted an envelope, stiff and yellowed with age, off the table and held it out to Dex. “Tobias left this letter for you,” he said, “but before you read it, let me give you some background.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair. “Tobias was a young runaway slave who was befriended by a sea captain in Boston before the Revolutionary War. In 1768 he was a sailor on a ship, the White Shark, which was based in Boston. In his journals, he writes of a day when a teenage boy mysteriously appeared aboard the White Shark, apparently out of thin air, and describes what happened over the course of the summer. He came to be friends with the boy, who he said had traveled back in time from the year 1995 and that friendship profoundly changed his life. He was sure that that boy’s appearance in 1768, your appearance, Dex, was more than a mere accident. He devoted himself to a life of study and contemplation to try to understand what had happened and what it would mean for you in the future.” Simon leaned forward. “Dex, those newspaper clippings you saw the other night were dated July, 1995.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. I’d remember something like that,” Dex protested.

  Melody spoke up. “In his writings, Tobias says that you probably wouldn’t remember. He theorized that time travel is unnatural and time somehow heals itself afterward so that the evidence, the memory, of the event is lost.” We saved those clippings when they were first printed, but now they are the only copies left. The others have vanished, even from the newspaper morgue.

  “But then, how did he remember,” asked D.J.

  “He asked himself that same question and his only answer was that the whole thing was part of a much bigger struggle, perhaps the ultimate struggle bet
ween good and evil, and some power was interceding to allow some bits of memory to exist.” He guessed that he was a part of it and maybe that’s why he could remember and we were able to keep those clippings.”

  Dex opened the envelope and withdrew two pages of off-white rag paper covered in fine handwriting. He began to read;

  Tremont, Maine

  In the year of our Lord 1832

  Dex,

  I write this letter in the firm conviction that our paths are destined to cross once again. I know that somehow, it along with my final gift to you will find you in the wondrous future you inhabit.

  I return to you the best part of the treasure you accumulated on the White Shark, all save DeJong’s ring, as well as your gift to me which has been my dearest possession.

  You may one day remember that we were shipmates on an American trading vessel known as the White Shark which was pursued and destroyed by British war ships in the year 1768.

  In the final moments of the battle, when I could see that it was lost, I ran to our cabin to save my knives and journal. I also intended to take up your purse, meaning to give it to you on deck, but that was not to be. Your treasure was gone, I assumed in your possession. Fleeing the fire, I made my way to the forecastle hatch and returned to the deck in time to see the blast which killed the Captain and lifted you into the air and in that moment, I saw you fade and flicker out like a candle in the wind. Not killed, I knew instantly, but finally set upon your path home. A moment later the powder stores exploded and I was blown over the bow somehow to make my way to a nearby island and thence, some days later, to this harbor.

  I regret to say that besides you and I, Weldon Quill and the first mate, Mister Davis, were the only members of our crew I am sure survived. Quill and I came ashore in this place and made new lives here; I, content to lead a quiet life of study (I must thank the fate that brought you and I together and provided a lifetime of speculation on man’s place amidst the forces of good and evil) and he, fiercely driven to accumulate endless wealth and influence. Mister Davis did not remain, choosing instead to try and make his way back to Boston.

  As my path and Quill’s drew apart, I chanced one day to see a ring upon Weldon’s finger and knew at once that it was he who had stolen your treasure. Abjuring for once my chosen role as bystander, I contrived to break into his home in his absence and there to recover your purse, the treasure intact but for the ring which never left his finger while he lived. I do not know what became of the ring after his death, but I believe it is drawn to you and will someday return.

  Dex, BEWARE OF THIS RING! Over the years I have managed to learn something of its evil secret. It is an ancient talisman which conveys great prosperity and success upon its owner through its mere possession, but it is also a path to greater power as a consort of evil. But the gift comes at great cost. It was the reason for the pirate DeJong's uncommon luck but its possession doomed him in the end. I believe that your appearance in my time and your part in his demise were not by chance. I have managed to trace some of the history of this ring and each owner has met a violent end while at the height of their success, as if powerful forces were working beyond our ken to balance some cosmic scale. In my studies, I have found suggestions of similar struggles, mostly just hints as though time itself protests its own violation. I have lived long enough to appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to be an unwitting part of that and I suspect that one day you will face even more difficulties as you battle time to remember.

  If the ring should come back to you, I implore you to destroy it if, indeed, that is even possible. In my years I have also learned that evil protects its own. I hope you will depend on whatever protection my poor gift can afford. Wear it always, But remember, you must believe in its protection.

  As my life draws to its close, I wish I could take your hand once again, but I am content in knowing you will one day read this and the journals I have left and perhaps remember me with the same fondness with which I remember you.

  Your friend in time,

  Tobias

  Dex read through the letter a second time and then, passing it to Annie, sat looking into the middle distance for a moment trying to make some sense out of it. He glanced over at Simon and suddenly his vision seemed to flicker and, like seeing himself as a boy in his nightmare, he saw Simon as a tall, muscular black boy dressed in simple homespun clothing smiling calmly back at him. Dex screwed his eyes shut for a second and when he reopened them Simon, looking normal, was holding a small wooden box out to him. “This is yours,” he said, “it was with the letter.”

  Dex set the box on his lap and opened it. Inside were a leather drawstring pouch, a small worn pocket knife and a carved medallion on a thin leather thong. The pouch clinked softly when he picked it up and when he upended it, a shower of golden coins fell into his palm. Dex held them out wordlessly for Annie and D.J. to examine. “Spanish doubloons,” said Simon. “All dated before 1766.”

  “Wow,” breathed D.J., “these are heavy.”

  “Doubloons were made of solid gold,” said Dex distractedly as he reached for the pocketknife. He had seen similar knives in historical collections; bone handles worn smooth and blades gray with patina and thinned by years of sharpening. As he looked at the knife, the ghost of a memory danced at the edge of his mind but disappeared as soon as he put it down to reach for the medallion.

  The medallion, about the size of a silver dollar, was carved from bone with the word ‘DEX’ in the middle and some sort of delicate lettering around the outside. Dex peered closely at the lettering, but could not make out the words.

  Melody spoke softly, “There is great power in that medallion. You must keep it with you always.”

  Dex slipped the thong over his head and let the medallion rest against his chest. His eyes widened as he felt a soothing feeling of warmth suffuse his skin but again his vision flickered and the room around him abruptly disappeared, replaced by a small rough compartment, wooden walls and low beamed ceiling dim in the shadows cast by a small lantern and cramped by the four bunks and table it contained. A strong ocean scent and the creaking sounds of rigging and sails filled by a brisk breeze assaulted his senses as the floor rolled gently under his feet.

  Dex tore the medallion off and threw it onto the table. “Damn it,” he said, “I can’t do this.”

  “What?” asked Annie. “What’s the matter?”

  “Now I’m having freaking visions. I was just on a, a ship or something, an, and a minute ago I looked at Simon and he was just a kid.”

  “You mustn’t fight it,” Melody said. “The memories are real. They’re your memories, hidden by the impossibility of their nature but you can reclaim them if you just accept this for what it is.”

  Dex stood up. “But what is it?” he asked. What the hell is happening?”

  “I’m afraid,” said Simon, “it’s the evil you fought two hundred and fifty years ago, come to our own time.”

  Chapter 34

  When they left the Masters’, Dex hesitated before starting the truck. He leaned over and touched D.J. on the arm. “You ok, kid?” he asked.

  D.J. nodded. “Sure,” he said, “this is really cool.”

  Dex frowned. “Yeah, cool,” he said. “Look, D.J., this is not something we want to talk about. We’ll figure out what’s going on eventually, but if you start talking about ghosts and time travel, people are going to think we’re a bunch of lunatics. Understand?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I understand, I won’t say anything.”

  The ride back to the Quill house was silent. Simon and Melody had allowed Dex to take Tobias’ journals and Annie was leafing through them as Dex drove. “This one talks about you being in Boston,” she said. “And I saw something about the Dutchman; it was apparently a ship. I think we need to take the time to read all of these…”

  “The Dutchman was more than a ship,” Dex interrupted. “It was a person too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “N
o idea… but I’m sure of it.”

  When they got back to the house, Zachary Taylor’s truck was in the driveway and there was steady hammering coming from the attic. Dex grabbed a couple of cokes out of the refrigerator and he and Annie settled onto the living room with the journals.

  “I’m going to go help Zach,” said D.J. “Let me know if you find anything good.”

  There were seven journals in all, the earliest with a starting date of August, 1767. The entries were not daily, but seemed to be spontaneous recordings of interesting or unusual occurrences. Dex scanned through the first one, stopping to read snippets of Tobias’ life as a teenage sailor. The information was fascinating; a small part of Dex’s mind already saw it as the foundation for a new American colonial history text, but he jumped ahead, anxious to find anything that pertained to him. He found it near the back of that first journal. “Look at this,” he said pointing the passage out to Annie.

  ‘July 8, 1768

  Fair weather and calm seas two days sail north by east of Boston. A castaway was discovered aboard yesterday morn and after spending much time with the captain was bid to quarter with Quill and me. Mister Stockford is of an age with me but, lost off a merchantman, he is no seaman.’

  “And this.”

  ‘July 10, 1768

  There is much consternation among the crew as to the nature of the castaway. Dex, as he bids me call him, enjoys the freedom of the quarterdeck and the hospitality of the Captain’s cabin, though he clearly is not the equal of the lowest ordinary seaman. There is talk amongst the crew of witchcraft afoot.’

  “Why did he write so small?” asked Annie squinting at the tiny script.

  “Paper was scarce in those days, and expensive. I’m amazed that he was able to find the means to even have a journal.” Dex started reading the next entry. “Oh oh, here’s trouble,” he said. “Listen to this, ‘14 July, 1768. Departed Boston harbor at the last of the morning flood without Dex. He disappeared while ashore last night with Alan Davis causing the Captain to tarry overlong at the dock. There is relief amongst some of the crew at his absence, but I fear for his safety ashore.’