by E W Barnes
BIDING TIME THE CHESTNUT COVIN
Book 1 of the
Temporal Protection Corps Series
E.W. BARNES
Biding Time - The Chestnut Covin © 2019 by E.W. Barnes All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover design by Tony Lazio
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: 2019
Now & Later Publishing
www.A1000Years.com
ISBN 978-1-7331492-1-1
For CB and AB
Covin definition from Merriam-Webster:
“A collusive agreement between two or more persons to the detriment of a third
Archaic: fraud, trickery”
“Throughout history, solitary trees often served as gathering places for secret groups of various agendas. Individual trees which served as historical gathering points are known as ‘trysting trees.’ The ‘Covin Trysting Tree’ is a giant sweet chestnut tree that was allegedly planted in the 12th century.”
— Domagoj Valjak, The Vintage News, March 2017
CHAPTER ONE
The book hit the wood floor hard, echoing off the walls of the empty house like gunfire. Her back to the bookcases, Sharon jumped and twisted to eye the offending tome behind her.
It had landed next to her checklist of packing tasks. The first in a series about World War II by Winston Churchill, the other volumes were teetering on the bookcase shelf, preparing to follow their compatriot to the floor.
“You guys want to be packed next, huh?” Her voice was loud in the bare room.
When the six books were sitting side-by-side in the box with the others she’d already packed, she wadded newspaper on top and taped the box shut. Then she pushed it against the wall where it joined a neat row of nine other identical boxes.
She faced the half-filled bookcases dominating the room, brushing strands of hair away from her face.
While her grandparents and family called the room “the library,” it was a re-purposed front bedroom with a bay window facing the street that offered a light for reading most of the day.
Chocolate brown craftsman style window frames and matching crown molding, along with dark beams across the ceiling, created the “library” feel of the room, and the bookcases set the tone. They had always been the focal point and, no longer sharing the room with any other furniture, they were a monumental presence.
They were the last vestige of her grandparents’ lives in the house, and a reminder of what she had lost.
◆◆◆
The massive bookcases had been in her grandparents’ home for as long as she could remember.
As a child she had clambered up the shelves, breathing deeply of the good wood smells, the old varnish, the sweet tang of books, and the flinty smell of dust.
As a teen she had practically lived in the library. It was the place she retreated to when she wanted to think, or write, or needed quiet.
More than once she had spent the night on the worn leather couch that had faced the bookcases, feeling safe in their sentinel presence. She spent years exploring the books, finding new ideas and new worlds to distract her from the pains of adolescence and more.
Now she had different pains. It had been just over a month since her grandparents died. It felt like an eternity and like it was only yesterday. And soon she would have to say goodbye to this beloved place forever.
Before their deaths, her grandparents had covered all the legal steps needed to ensure a smooth transition. The house sold to a cash buyer just two days after it was listed for sale, and most of the furniture was given to family, or sold to antiques dealers.
All that was left to do before the new owners took possession was to remove a few remaining boxes and miscellaneous items, and the books and bookcases. She had put it off for as long as she could.
She frowned at the bookcases. She had not decided if she should keep or leave them. Her first choice was to keep them, but she wasn’t sure they would fit in her small apartment.
Then there were the logistics of getting them out of the house. Solid enough to support a huge collection of books, and the gymnastics of a 6-year-old, she would need professional help to move them.
I bet Grandfather mounted them to the wall in case of earthquakes, too, she thought as she gave one a little shove.
The bookcase moved.
Even almost empty of books, the bookcase was a huge piece of furniture made of solid hardwood. It should not have moved.
She pushed it again. Again, it moved.
Holding her breath, with both hands she pulled.
Almost noiselessly the bookcase swung away from the wall like a door. It stopped when it reached a half-full box.
Gaping at the bookcase, she almost missed the small door in the wall. There was no handle, only seams giving away its existence.
After assuring that the bookcase would not swing back, she got on her knees, running her hands along the outlines of the small door, her imagination racing.
Like a door from "Alice in Wonderland."
Don't be silly, it is probably a crawlspace for the furnace system or something.
She got a small flashlight and a Swiss army knife from her purse and studied the door. Without a handle, there was no obvious way to open it. She scanned the seams closely and then saw the answer.
There was a spot next to one side, more worn than the surrounding area. She pressed a finger on the spot, and the door popped open.
Backing up as far as she could while still being able to see in, she shined the light into the darkness and saw she was partially right.
It was a crawlspace. But it was not for the furnace system.
◆◆◆
Rose and Kevin Bower had been ordinary grandparents.
They had lived and raised their family in the town of Broxwood, a suburb of Long Beach, California. An Englishman had settled the town in the early 1900s and, in a state of extreme homesickness, had named it in honor of his home in Herefordshire.
Except for the derricks which sprouted up like dandelions when oil was discovered in the 1920s, Broxwood, California was like many towns established in the early 20th century in north America.
In the 21st century a few of the oil derricks remained, nodding like giant metal horses when they were in operation, and allowing the town to keep its most unique characteristic.
Rose and Kevin’s home was modest, and they lived in it almost their entire marriage. They raised two children to adulthood and regularly hosted a small group of grandchildren, all of whom stayed in the Broxwood area.
The only thing peculiar in their lives was their deaths. After long and healthy lives, they both died of natural causes on the same day, within an hour of each other.
The coincidence, at the end of otherwise unremarkable existences, seemed to be just that.
There was nothing that hinted at what Sharon found in the crawlspace.
◆◆◆
Sharon set the flashlight on the floor and put the knife in her pocket. From the floor next to an open box, she retrieved a dictionary that in happier days sat on its own lectern-like table next to the bookcases. Six inches thick, it would serve as an excellent door stop.
Wit
h the door securely propped open, she picked up the flashlight in one hand, and entered the crawlspace on her knees.
Her tracks left in the dust revealed the same pine planks as were in the library with a dull shine that promised easy cleaning later.
The walls were also the same as those in the library. The paint looked strange, though, like it was mottled.
Mold? She shuddered, thinking of face masks she included in her cleaning supplies. She peered more intently, primed to make a hasty retreat.
It was not mold.
It was writing.
A letter in her grandmother's handwriting started on the left wall next to the door, circled around the back of the crawl space, and ended on the wall behind her.
"Dear Sharon ..." the writing began.
Her chest tight, her eyes blurred, Sharon scrambled backwards through the small door, breathing raggedly.
◆◆◆
It was a while before she returned to the library.
With shaking hands, she drank cold coffee leftover from the morning and questioned what she had seen. She must have imagined a letter to her from her grandmother on the wall.
Surely mold or some other noxious substance had made her see things. After she calmed down, she collected items as if getting ready for an expedition.
She retrieved a face mask and bleach from the cleaning supplies and tucked her shoulder-length hair up into a baseball cap.
The Swiss army knife still in her pocket, she added her camera phone, and a plastic zip bag so she could take a sample of the mold.
Finally, she grabbed a high-powered battery flashlight that would serve as a lantern and give her free use of both hands.
She was ready.
She moved the half-full box of books out of the way so that the bookcase could swing as widely as possible, allowing for the free flow of air, and then used the box to hold the bookcase in place.
With the mask firmly over her mouth and nose, she ducked her head in and crawled forward.
She avoided the walls with her eyes as she set the flashlight on the floor to reflect off the ceiling.
Then she allowed herself to look again.
"Dear Sharon…"
Flooded with grief and excitement, she began to read.
◆◆◆
Dear Sharon,
Beloved granddaughter, I have always known you would be the one to find this space and read these words.
Explanations are needed, and you will have many questions, but the most important thing is how much your grandfather and I loved you, and how rich and good our lives were with you and all our family.
We would have changed nothing.
Allowing that you're likely shocked at finding these words, let me get the most difficult part out of the way first.
Reciting the full history here is not possible, so in sum: I was not who you thought I was and was not the orphaned daughter of immigrants who died during the Great Depression.
Erica and Alwin, my parents, will not have yet been born when you read this.
Truthfully, I was a time traveler.
Historian or more accurately a chrono-historian researching events of the 20th century.
Entertainingly, it was supposed to only last for six months, then I was to return to my time.
Caught by love instead after meeting your grandfather, I stayed in the 20th century as his wife.
He loved the mystery and excitement of his wife from the future and respected the importance of keeping silent, not even objecting when I arranged to die on the same day as he did so I would not have to live without him.
Equally entranced by his historical charm and caring was I.
Still, I worked hard to not take advantage of my historical foreknowledge for personal gain, or to make major changes to the timeline.
Though I allowed myself to take advantage of some knowledge, such as knowing you would be the one to find this letter.
Now, there are things I must ask you to do for me.
Urgently, you must sell this house and if you or any other family are planning to live here, make different plans.
There will be a terrible earthquake here - it will injure many and it will destroy this neighborhood - I ask you to please protect yourself from that.
Correspondingly, you must keep the bookcases because they use a kind of magnetic levitation technology that makes them easy to move; it was the only technological advantage I allowed myself, so I could access this secret crawlspace.
Obviously, it is a technology that is not yet available, and you must ensure that it is not accidentally discovered.
Very important - you must destroy this letter.
I know you are saddened by our deaths and you may be tempted to keep this important part of us intact, but the knowledge is too dangerous, and you must paint it, cover it, make it disappear, block the door, whatever.
Not the least, and I know this will be the hardest request, you must tell no one about this, not even our family because some will not believe you, some will believe you delusional, and no good will come from either.
All my love,
Grandmother Rose
◆◆◆
Afternoon sun warmed the room as she lay on the floor in the library staring at the ceiling, going over the message in her mind. Surely it was a joke, a prank. Maybe it was her siblings’ doing.
The language and cadence of the message were odd, not in the voice she associated with her grandmother. It was too stilted and wordy. And the idea of her grandmother being a time-traveler was preposterous!
But if it was a joke, it was a strange one. The family had talked about leaving the bookcases in the house for the new owners. If she had left the bookcases, there was no way she would have found the door in the wall or the message in the crawlspace.
Then there was the mystery of the door itself. She had never known about it, never discovered it in any of her explorations as a child. Nor had she ever heard her siblings or parents talk about it.
The more she thought about it, the more that it seemed unlikely the message was a joke. She reluctantly had to ask herself the more bizarre and much scarier question:
What if it were all true?
She took her phone out of her pocket and crawled back into the space. Carefully positioning the flashlight toward the walls, she took pictures of the message in sequence.
If it was a joke, then she and the joker could have a good laugh over it. If not, she would paint over it as the message asked, and she would not lose this irreplaceable information.
When her phone rang in her hand, she nearly dropped it, her heart racing. The caller ID showed it was her sister. After taking a steadying breath, she answered the phone.
“Hey, Holly, how are you feeling?”
“Good, so far. My back is killing me, and the baby hasn’t stopped kicking for days. I will be glad when this is over in a couple of weeks, but otherwise I am fine. How are things going there?”
“Um, I am working in the library. You know, loading books into boxes.”
“Oh, those amazing bookshelves. The new owner will love them.”
“Actually, I think I will keep them.” Sharon said glancing at the back of the open bookcase.
Then she looked again, almost not hearing Holly’s response. There was something on the back of the bookcase.
“Really?” Holly's voice rose. “Where will you put them in your apartment? Do you have enough room?”
“Uh, I think I can make room,” Sharon answered distractedly, crawling past the door and reaching with her free hand to touch a cold metal panel. She pulled her hand back quickly.
“Holly, can I call you back later?”
“Sure. The doctor has said I can’t go out anymore, and I will be sitting here with my feet up until D-day. Come have dinner before things get too crazy.” Holly hung up.
Sharon set the phone on the floor and studied the metal panel. She looked behind her at the door in the wall and then back again at the pan
el. With her index finger, she poked at the spot on the panel that mirrored the spot that had opened the crawlspace door.
The panel popped open.
Inside were electronics and circuits, colored buttons, and blinking lights. At the bottom was a screen flashing strings of numbers and symbols.
She blinked her eyes, feeling a little dizzy, craning around to look at the front of the bookcase. Then she looked inside the panel opening again.
The depth was wrong. The space behind the panel was the full depth of the bookcase. There was an empty shelf in front of where the panel space was, and the panel space was where the shelf was. It was not possible. The space could not be there but by some mechanism beyond her understanding, it was.
She felt like an explorer entering a tangled jungle for the first time.
The controls for the magnetic levitation device, I presume.
The message in the crawlspace was true.
CHAPTER TWO
Sharon sat in a corner of a coffee shop not reading the book in front of her and keeping an eye on the door.
It had been two days since she found the message in the crawlspace. She’d completed everything on her checklist except for moving the bookcases and a few boxes.
This morning she was meeting someone from “Now and Later Movers” which, according to her research, specialized in moving antiques and unique items and had a five-star rating from previous customers.
After she had photographed the message on the wall of the crawlspace, she had also taken photos of the control panel. She had searched for similar photos online as a last-ditch effort to prove the message was a hoax. She’d found nothing.
For added security she uploaded the photos to her computer and deleted them from her phone. Storing them in a locked file only she could access made her feel a little better about defying her grandmother’s request.
While she didn’t understand what all the electronics in the control panel area were for, eventually she figured out which control turned on and off the magnetic levitation system.