The Lens and the Looker (Book #1 of The Verona Trilogy)

by Lory Kaufman

  "Well, excuse me if I get results quickly!" Pan retorted indignantly.

  Shamira giggled. "Your idea about the laxative was brilliant. Did you see the way the Podesta guy ran?" she laughed. "But he really wasn't hurt, was he?"

  "No. And thank you for your compliment, Mistress. I'm glad someone appreciates me. Yes, it was a brilliant plan. May I see my picture now?"

  "Just finished," Shamira said. "There."

  Pan jumped off the ladder and scampered to her side.

  "You are quite talented, Young Mistress," he said.

  "Not really," she answered, offhandedly.

  "I beg to differ."

  "Are they eating supper at the house?" Lincoln asked Hansum. He was just coming up the ladder from the lower barn. He, like the enactor playing the Podesta, had some gastric problems. He found an old, cracked chamber pot in one of the stables.

  "I can't see clearly, but I think the Signora is doing something by the fireplace," Hansum answered.

  "Well, I hope so. After what I just did, I'm really hungry again," he whined. "And it really hurt. It was all red and gushed out like a tornado!"

  "We heard," Hansum said.

  "Spare us the details," Shamira said. "That's what you get for stuffing yourself with bread, oil and wine. You eat like a twelve-year-old."

  "I'm thirteen!"

  "Then grow up."

  They sat in silence for a few moments, then Lincoln, obviously still in deep thought, finally said, "But did you hear what they said about us?" Lincoln asked. "They said, 'geniuso'. They think we're all geniuses." Everyone fell silent at this remark. Pan shook his head and rolled his eyes, literally.

  "What?" Lincoln asked.

  "You idiot," Hansum retorted. "They don't think we're geniuses. Saying 'geniuso' is code that they know we have a genie hidden somewhere!" Everyone laughed at Lincoln. Then Hansum became serious. "Quiet!" He cocked his head to hear something. Then they all heard it. Footsteps below in the barn. "Someone's coming," he whispered.

  "Is it the Master?" Hansum asked.

  "I can't see," Shamira said, peering down the loft's entrance. "It's too dark in the barn already." The ladder creaked as it took someone's weight. "They're coming up. Pan, get back in your lamp." In a blur of colors, the hologram disappeared back into Hansum's shoulder. Lincoln grimaced as he heard the sound of someone slowly taking one step at a time.

  "Who's there?" Hansum called into the darkness. "Is that you, Giuseppe, I mean, Master?" The ladder groaned again.

  "Yeah," Lincoln said, peering over the precipice. "I guess I'm sorry I stepped on your foot. But you hit me." The ladder creaked twice more, then silence.

  "Is that you, Podesta?" Shamira asked. "I hope your stomach's better." The loft was in a gray twilight, but the square hole to the lower barn seemed a portal to a silent, black pit.

  The children looked at each other.

  "Signora?" Shamira queried.

  Finally, a deep and melodious male voice, which was speaking in verse, echoed from the abyss.

  "Not she."

  "Who?" all the teens asked in unison.

  "Tis one who will sweep the cobwebs from your eyes

  And leave you with wondrous whys."

  "It kinda sounds like that polatta fella," Lincoln guessed.

  "No, not he," the voice responded.

  "Who are you, then?" Shamira asked.

  "Allow me ascend and share our faces.

  That's what friends do, to be in each other's graces."

  "We're not stopping you," Hansum retorted.

  "Your beneficent invitation . . . I shall take."

  A few seconds later the mysterious head of the stranger appeared.

  "Greeting young students of life

  From an older one of the same."

  The man stepped into the loft and looked smilingly into the eyes of each teenager. He had a long aquiline nose and a pointed chin, made more severe by a dark goatee. His confident grey eyes and bushy eyebrows, long and twisted at the ends, gave him an eccentric but interesting look. Wiry salt and pepper hair fell down to his shoulders. It surrounded his chiseled face like a lion's mane. He was dressed in a simple toga, from under which finely made sandals peeked.

  "Greetings, young ones."

  "Who are you?" Shamira asked.

  "My name is Arimus."

  "My name is . . . ." Hansum began to say, but Arimus put up a hand for him to stop.

  "Hansum, Shamira and Lincoln.

  Your faces and cases are known to me."

  "He's one weird enactor," Lincoln said. "Is he supposed to be from Verona?"

  "No. I think he's a History Camp Elder," Hansum said. "Come to read us the riot act?"

  "No, that is not my charge.

  For the act of riot, you have already performed well.

  Therefore you must have already read and studied it for yourselves."

  "Are you going to send us home then?" Shamira asked.

  "No, for home you're not bound.

  You have much to experience and learn.

  And from it you will prosper, ere you all shall burn."

  "I don't understand," Hansum said.

  "Yeah. And why are you talking in poetry?" Lincoln asked.

  "That's the way we talk from whence I come

  Some verse blank, some is rhymed,

  Some's out of sync and some is timed.

  But if you listen carefully, if you open an ear

  What's between the lines will soon be clear."

  "Do you have anything that rhymes with food?" Lincoln asked. "My stomach's queasy. I'm really hungry."

  "Oh, where you're all going,

  you can have the food you seek

  If you work willingly and act verily meek."

  "Oh, you're taking us somewhere else?" Hansum said.

  "Yes, yes, you've done all the damage here

  And displayed your disdain

  For the help which was proffered

  That was there for your gain.

  So now I must take you to an old time that's real

  Where all of your angers can be taken to heel."

  "What the zip did he just say?" Lincoln asked.

  "I think he's saying he'll take us somewhere that's going to be rougher than here," Shamira suggested.

  "Another History Camp?" Hansum asked. "So, if Verona in the fourteenth century hasn't been hard enough, where next?"

  "History Camp? Nay.

  But Verona's the place and the era's the same,

  But this time that fair setting will be not a game.

  For this Arimus comes from a future long hence

  To whisk you all to a Verona that's truly past tense.

  Where they say to you work, or don't eat 'ere to die

  This will happen for sure, whether you grumble and cry."

  Hansum stepped forward and looked straight into Arimus's relaxed eyes.

  "Elder Arimus, are you saying you're from the future and you're going to take us back to Verona in the real fourteenth century? And that if we don't give in and work, we can starve to death?"

  "Is that what he's really saying?" Shamira asked, a bit of both fear and wonder in her voice.

  "It is as Hansum suggests."

  Hansum began to snicker, then outright laugh. "This is really rich. He's expecting us to believe that he can take us back in time. Look, why don't you guys just admit that you've been beaten and let us go home?"

  "Yeah," Lincoln said. "I won't even tell that you guys hit me."

  Arimus ignored the boys. Instead he looked over at the drawing in Shamira's hand.

  "Ah, look at this image of the Pan you drew.

  You have dexterous hands that belong to but few."

  "It's nothing," she said and let the drawing fall into the straw.

  "An eye that so senses, and a hand that can do.

  Where you are going, these talents,

  This asset, might just get you through."

  "Didn't you hear me?" Hansum said, "We
don't believe you."

  "Aye. I heard you, my boy.

  And if it's for proof that you're fretting

  Play along more, and soon enough,

  It will be proof you'll be getting."

  Hansum looked deeply into Arimus's eyes, their gazes meeting in a momentary silence.

  "Is it true?" Hansum asked quietly. "You're really from the future?"

  "It's true."

  "Wow," Lincoln said enthusiastically. "If you really are from the future, that would be . . ."

  "Zippy?"

  The sound of the house's wooden door latch was heard through the crisp night air. The voices of the enactors, the Master, Signora Cagliari and the Podesta could be heard in the barnyard.

  "Oh Signor Podesta," the Master's voice called out, "it is so Christian of you to forgive the children their mistakes. I'm sure they'll be good now."

  "Yes, but hold the lamp higher, Giuseppe," the Podesta's voice said. "I want to see where I'm going, not step in a cow pie."

  "Giuseppe, take care with the jug too," the Signora's voice called out a bit shrewishly. "You're spilling the wine."

  "Just you mind the new meal you cooked for the children, wife. Don't drop the plate."

  Arimus laughed.

  "It seem these historical actors have forgiven your fibs,

  And do bring you a repast to fill Lincoln's ribs.

  We must now act in haste, to make good on my crime

  But I must first change my raiment to suit our new clime.

  To change them post quick, my hand I thus flick."

  Arimus flicked his wrist and his toga transmuted its shape, thickness and color. In an instant he was wearing a fourteenth-century monk's cassock. The children looked as if he had performed magic.

  "How in the...." Hansum began.

  "Technology is all. Just technology."

  The light from the enactor's lamp was now throwing long shadows into the interior of the lower barn. It spilled upward through the ladder's opening and into the loft.

  The Signora called out, "Children, we bring you food. All is forgiven."

  "Quiet woman!" the Master said. "One does not have to show weakness when being kind. These children have done mean things and must know it. Now hold the lamp and I'll go up the ladder first." The sound of the Master grunting was heard as he started his climb.

  "Be careful, Giuseppe," the Signora's voice said. "You're spilling the wine."

  "Time is short.

  We must step through yon port."

  He flicked his wrist toward the open haymow and a whistling wind began. The loft filled with a bright, gold light and an outward wind sucked out loose straw from the floor. A large funnel shape appeared, composed of what looked like oversized gold-colored orbs of light the size of a man's fist. There were millions of them, a massive stream which rushed downward and converged into an opening little more than the width of a pencil lead. It looked like giant holographic sand falling through a giant hourglass. Effervescing up from the stream were larger bubbles of translucent light, shimmering globes varying in size from grapefruits to beach balls that bounced and careened all over the place.

  "The bright sands and energy of time roils and falls before you.

  They flow through a portal and into realities long-since lived.

  Come, let us join forebears who will become mentors."

  Hansum inched his way to the haymow door and looked down. The fast-descending stream of spheres inexplicably appeared at the funnel's top and disappeared into the tiny point at the bottom. It was moving so fast, it made him dizzy with vertigo.

  "It's all going through that tiny hole. We'll be crushed!" Hansum said.

  "From here, that's what it appears.

  From there, it opens up into forever."

  Several of the large globes of light bounded into the barn, flying straight at Lincoln. He tried to duck but, like large, self-determined soap bubbles, they swerved. When they reached him, though, they didn't burst. They flew right through the boy as if they both existed in different dimensions. Lincoln looked even more frightened.

  "They like you."

  Arimus laughed. Then he commanded:

  "Come. Give me your hands.

  We shall ride the sands of time

  through the hourglass of the cosmos."

  The frightened teenagers each took a step back. The Master was now halfway up the ladder. The light behind him cast his long shadow across the barn's thatched ceiling.

  "We've no time to lose."

  Arimus grabbed Lincoln's arm and forced the teen's hand to touch his monk's robe. Lincoln tried to pull away.

  "Hey, my hand is stuck!" he cried. "Your cloak won't let me go! Make it let go!"

  Hansum, coming to Lincoln's aid, also grabbed Arimus by the gown.

  "It's got me too!" Hansum cried.

  "Fear not, young friends.

  It's all just technology and time."

  Arimus turned to Shamira, who was now cowering by the ladder. He smiled and held out his hand.

  "Come brave, adventurous Shamira. Come all of you.

  Fear not the lessons of life.

  Take the hand that I offer, and trust me, I pray.

  This adventure you'll cherish,

  For the rest of your days. Come."

  Shamira took Arimus's hand. The Master's head crowned through the opening.

  "We're away."

  The four rushed toward the vortex and jumped out of the haymow door. For an instant, they were suspended twenty feet above the barnyard, then they tumbled down the swirling rabbit hole. The vortex collapsed and silence once again reigned in the barnyard.

  ***

  Master Cagliari's head popped through to the loft, smiling and enthusiastic.

  "Bambini," he shouted, "I bring you supper and a promise to start anew...." But all was quiet. "The storm's abated," he called, still in character. When he realized he had no audience, he relaxed. "Colleague, they're gone." And with that, he took a big swig from the wine jug and started down the ladder. All that was left in the loft, lying in the straw, was Shamira's lonely charcoal drawing of Pan.

  Book Two

  Hard-Time Reality

  Chapter 19

  Verona, October, 1347 C.E.

  Hansum found himself face down in straw. The last thing he remembered was jumping out through the haymow door with the others. 'I don't remember hitting the ground,' he thought to himself. He wiggled his toes, then fingers. No pain. He felt straw tickling his mouth and tried to blow it out. No good. There was more than straw in there, something sticky and awful tasting. "Ppphhff!" He spit, but couldn't get it all out. He took a deep breath and the vile smell of ammonia burned his sinuses and lungs. He jumped to his feet, wheezing.

  "Mmmrrraaaawwwww!" He spun his head around and saw a scrawny cow tied to a dead tree by a barn. There had been no dead tree in the Master's immaculately kept plot. And this scrawny beast was not the Master's contented animal. Nor was this his barn. In fact, where the Master's barnyard had a somewhat earthy, sweet smell, the whole area here smelled of foul puddles of urine, cow dung, carcasses and other unnamed rotting things.

  Instead of a neatly partitioned lot surrounded by a stone fence, this barn was part of a long, muddy alleyway full of tumble-down sheds and out-buildings. The alley ran behind a row of unkempt houses facing a larger road. The alley and road were connected by an even muddier lane ending at the barn. The shabbiness of the area was made more extreme by the gray day. 'Day?' Hansum thought. Had he been lying outside all night? While he thought on this, he used his fingers to rid himself of whatever was still stuck at the back of his mouth. He finally gagged out the clot and was horrified to see bits of straw mashed together with what must be manure. He threw it to the ground and made a face. He saw the other two teens still on the ground. They too were slowly becoming aware of their surroundings. Hansum looked behind him to see Arimus standing calm and relaxed.

  "When traveling through a vortex,

  "Try la
nding on your feet.

  It takes a bit of practice,

  but will keep your clothes more neat."

  As the three got up, brushing dirt from their clothes, Arimus walked over to the nervous cow and petted it. A flock of chickens ran out of the barn to see if the newly arrived humans brought food. Startled by the aggressive little creatures, Hansum took a step back and bumped into the others, who were equally frightened. Arimus laughed, earning him three petulant scowls, which he ignored. When the chickens saw there was nothing being thrown their way, they lost interest and began pecking around in the mud. One picked up the clod of filth Hansum had spat. It broke it open, found a seed within, and gobbled it down. Hansum felt himself gag again.

  Arimus clapped his hands and grinned.

  "We are arrived."

  "Where are we?" Shamira asked.

  "Verona, 1347. Just outside the old city walls."

  "And you think we'll find this place more . . . interesting?" Hansum challenged. The others looked to Arimus for his answer.

  "Fourteenth century Verona interesting?

  Yes, a very interesting time in history.

  Interesting to study. But to live? Subsist?

  From your safe world you have come to a time before countries.

  The time of the city-state, the family-dominated oligarchy.

  The time of grand hypocrisy.

  Craftsmanship, philosophy, art,

  the concept of romantic love,

  all are on the rise.

  It is the Pre-Renaissance.

  Science is soon to become the greatest weapon of war.

  A time when cities compete treacherously against one another, fighting deadly battles to gain commercial advantage.

  Families assassinate family members.

  Imagine, if you will, the hows and whats of this human existence, compared to your known modern comforts.

  Or imagine it not. You will be living it soon, for this is your destination.

  The real, the true, the living, fourteenth-century Verona."

  "You're a hell of a tour guide," Hansum said glibly.

  "Oh, a guided tour you shall not get.

  You're on your own, the story's set.

  It will soon be you who guide yourselves along.

  I only hope, you'll all be strong."

  Lincoln smiled. "You're leaving us by ourselves?" he asked in a delighted tone. "No adults to tell us what to do?"

  Arimus nodded.

  "And we really traveled to a different time?" Shamira asked, seeking assurance. "It was a rough trip."

  "Going back a thousand years in time means traveling trillions of parsecs of space

  Back to where the Earth was at, and to this particular place.

  And now, you are alone."

  "Yeah," Lincoln said with gusto.