Chains of Time

by R B Woodstone

  “Carriages?” Jerome asks.

  “That’s how he moves his supply around the city. That’s his army. If we go in, they’re gonna follow right behind us.”

  “No,” says Jerome. “They’re not going in. I’m not letting them.” He steps away from the stable, planting himself in the middle of the street, directly in the path of traffic.

  A large, beat-up car, a silver Thunderbird, turns at the same corner. The driver honks the horn, trying desperately to maneuver past the carriages.

  “Damn it,” says Warren, “that’s Marco.”

  “Marco? Terry’s friend Marco?”

  “Yeah, Terry’s friend. And our grandfather. Don’t let him get hurt.”

  A whooshing sound comes from the stable. Fragments of hay and dust blow from the entrance as if cast by a great wind. Warren knows exactly what sort of wind might be blowing inside. “I’ve got to help Pop,” he says as he runs toward the stable entrance. “I’m going in. Don’t let anyone get past you.”

  “Not a chance,” Jerome tells him as he readies himself at the offensive line. “Not a chance.”

  I watch as the Black boys climb down from their drug carriages, their faces stained with spite, their emotions deadened by drugs and money. Were they already like this when Van Owen found them—corrupted, lost, convinced that dealing drugs is the only path to freedom—or did he bring them to this state? Did he poison their minds with twisted ideals, or were they already damaged—like so many African Americans—by the legacy of slavery, parentless, penniless, bitter, and hopeless?

  They leave their wagons in the street and race toward the stable on foot. Jerome stands firmly in their path. “You’re not going in there,” he tells them, “so you might as well just turn around and leave.”

  One of the men starts reaching inside his coat for a weapon, but another one warns him, “Captain says no guns in public.”

  There are nine of them altogether facing Jerome. He stands only twenty feet from the stable entrance, preparing himself the same way he would when protecting his quarterback. They’re not getting past me, he tells himself, eyeing them, trying to draw them in close so that they can’t slip around him. Then, as Jerome turns to get a glimpse of Marco—his first sight of his grandfather—the men make their move. Three of them rush at Jerome. He scoops up the first one and hurls him like a sack of animal feed at the other two. All three fall to the street.

  The others take their cue. Two of them run for the door, but Jerome is too fast. He tackles them both, jumping up immediately to ready himself for the next set of attackers.

  Meanwhile, Marco moves toward the door, intent on fulfilling my prophecy. He stops for a moment to have a look at Jerome. He wants to assist, but the foes are young men. Marco has no means to fight them except with a gun. In that moment, another car—a gypsy cab—pulls up behind the other vehicles. The left rear door swings open. Regina climbs from the cab. Suddenly, her head turns sharply at the sight of something moving nearby. She looks down and notices someone hidden beneath the parked car beside her. She kneels down for a better look. There, huddled on the ground, is Leticia March. The girl is shivering, her eyes vacant. Gently, Regina stretches out her hand and touches Leticia’s hand. Leticia’s eyes snap open, her mind her own again. She stares for a moment, understanding that Regina has helped her somehow. She slides out from under the car and stands. She doesn’t nod or speak; she simply gazes at Regina in wonder before backing up slowly. Then she turns and runs off into the night.

  As Regina races to the other side of the car and takes Willa’s arm to ease her out, Jerome looks on, bewildered. He is the only one of the children who still doesn’t know the truth about his family—that each of them is blessed in some way, not just the men, that they are all descendants of Merlante and Mkembro wizards. He tries to quicken the pace of the fight, hoping to end it sooner. The women are still nearly sixty feet from the stable. It will be a long, slow walk—especially for Willa. Jerome is confident that he has time to finish the fight and intercept the two women before they can reach the door. But he can’t help but think to himself, What on earth are they doing here?

  As they shuffle forward, Regina tugs on her grandmother’s arm and points at the old man in the pinstripe suit and fedora. For the first time in nearly fifty years, Willa and Marco see each other. Marco removes his hat, runs his hand through his grayed hair to comb it back neatly. He winks at Regina. He nods his head at Willa and flashes her a sad smile. She smiles back at him, tears forming in her eyes. Then Marco draws his Masterpiece pistol, the same one I used to wound Van Owen all those years ago, and he moves through the doorway and into the stable.

  Willa tells Regina to pull her forward. Regina moves faster, stunned to find that Willa is keeping pace with her. Regina turns back and sees that her grandmother is hovering above the ground, using her power to lift herself in the air. Regina looks as if she is guiding a parade float.

  As Jerome struggles against the pack, Willa and Regina skirt by him and into the stable. Terrified for them, Jerome grabs one of his fallen opponents by the ankle. Grunting, he lifts the youth and begins to spin, whirling the boy like a plane propeller, slapping him into the last of the army before finally releasing the boy, sending him hurling into a car, unconscious but alive. Jerome checks the area one last time. There is no one left to fight. Forbidden to pull their weapons, physically drained, those still conscious hobble away. Finally, Jerome races through the stable doors.

  And then we are all together, the whole family—all of us here with Van Owen. And the gunfire begins.

  Thirty-Three

  Carl spun in a circle, eyeing the second-floor landing. He ducked behind a pillar to eye where the shots were coming from. Then he extended his hand toward the rafters, and a whirlwind rode along his arm. He stepped from behind the pillar and shook his arm, and the whirlwind flew up toward the stalkers. Carl could see no one, but he could hear the voices of young men struggling to hold their positions against the wind.

  Behind the glass walls at the rear of the stable, two brown velvet curtains parted, revealing the office and Van Owen looking out through the floor-to-ceiling window. From a distance, he resembled a fish in an aquarium, but the aquarium was decorated as a Nineteenth Century drawing room—polished mahogany floors, walls covered with tapestries and paintings and sconces and antique mirrors. Overhead, a giant chandelier hung from the thirty-foot ceiling.

  For just a moment, Carl grew distracted by the opulence of the office, by Van Owen standing in the window, watching the spectacle, and he lost his concentration. His wind slowed, and a shot rang out from above. Immediately, his thoughts went to Terry, who was still bound to the chair, still out in the open.

  “Terry, get down,” Warren shouted from the doorway. Carl turned to see him entering the stable, racing to his father and standing back to back with him, a strategy they had practiced a decade ago. “I’ve got your back, Pop.”

  For a moment, Carl had a notion that he should be furious at Warren—send him away, he thought—but there was no time for blame or delay or old angers. Now two of his sons were in danger. He pressed his back against Warren’s and repeated Warren’s words: “Terry, get down!”

  Terry twisted in his chair, tipping it back and forth before finally knocking it to the ground on its side. His head struck the floor hard, but he remained conscious. He pushed with his feet, inching the chair along the cement floor, trying to make it to the front door, which was more than forty feet away.

  Several more shots sounded. Carl checked his sons. No one had been hit yet. He wanted to run to Terry, but he couldn’t take a chance of drawing the gunfire toward his son. Warren was right. Fighting was the only option—fighting back-to-back, just like he had trained his eldest son. “Now,” he shouted. Together, Carl’s and Warren’s hands began to glow. Currents crackled from their fingertips and flew upward into the loft. The lightning branched out, randomly striking hay bales and wooden boards. Two men howled in pain. One tumbled from t
he loft, falling with a thump to the stable floor. Carl glanced at him quickly. It was a boy, perhaps only sixteen. Black. Van Owen was using children against him. “Try not to kill them,” Carl whispered, “They’re just kids.”

  A sudden movement near the door caught Carl’s attention. He spun, ready to confront a new attacker. An old white man was dashing in, his gun drawn. “Who the hell…?”

  “He’s okay,” Warren told him. That’s Marco…he’s…he’s with us.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s Mom’s father.”

  Thirty-Four

  So Carl knows now. He looks as if he wants to turn and question what Warren has told him, but there’s no time. He watches the old man maneuver through the room fearlessly, zigzagging as he runs, keeping his path unpredictable, even as he keeps his eyes glued on Terry.

  I am elated to see Marco strong again, but I grieve that he is yet another parent in this family who was unable to watch his child grow up.

  Twice, he fires his gun straight above his head, pointed at no one, using the gunfire only as a distraction. Finally, he reaches his youngest grandson. “Hang in there, Terry,” he says. Bending down, he grasps Terry’s overturned chair by one leg and drags it behind him, heading for the entrance. “I’ve got you.”

  Carl and Warren know they must provide cover for Marco and Terry, so they double their lightning attacks, spraying currents as rapidly as they can. Another man screams. His cohorts, all of them still hidden, begin firing their guns again. Marco aims his gun at the ceiling again, and pulls the trigger until his pistol is empty. But the shots from above don’t abate. Two of the attackers even make themselves visible, leaning out from behind a crate in the rafters, eyeing the scene below, trying to draw a bead on the white man.

  Marco spots them and knows that his chances are slim. He might make it the door without being shot, but Terry is an even easier target. Then Marco spots the abandoned hansom cab, tilted on its side in the middle of the stable, and he moves toward it, dragging Terry’s chair with him.

  From behind the glass wall, Van Owen watches with a satisfied smile. He recognizes Marco—the man who shot him near the man cabin, the one whose mind Van Owen riddled with guilt and self-doubt. Perhaps, Van Owen ponders, this old man needs another bout with fear. He closes his eyes and speaks into Marco’s mind. “You’re going to die, old man. You’re going to suffer and bleed and die, just like you deserve.”

  Marco hears the voice in his head. He recognizes the tone, for it has haunted him for years. But Marco has nothing left to fear; he has come here to die. He grits his teeth and plows forward toward the carriage, running in full view of the two exposed gunmen. He looks up and sees their teenage faces, their frightened yet rabid eyes, their guns pointing, aiming. “Yeah, Van Owen, I’m gonna die,” he says aloud, “and I’m not afraid—not afraid of dying and not afraid of you.” He feels the first bullet as it enters his chest beneath his right shoulder. He staggers for a moment but continues on. The second bullet is harsher, like a dagger piercing his back on the left side and exploding through his chest, taking blood and meat and bone with it. But he doesn’t stop, even as the air becomes thinner and he can barely breathe. He tucks the chair safely behind the hansom cab and tumbles to the ground beside it. “Terry, are you all right?” he asks, coughing for air.

  Terry nods and mumbles yes through the duct tape. He doesn’t know that Marco has been hit. The old man drops his empty gun and reaches inside his jacket for his switchblade. The hand comes out coated with blood. He wipes it off on his jacket and snaps the blade open. Leaning in toward Terry, he slices through the tape that binds the boy’s ankles. He is reaching toward Terry’s wrists when Carl calls out, “No!”

  So Regina and Willa have arrived. The child is still holding on to her grandmother’s hand, running just a step in front of her. They come through the stable entrance, moving directly toward the glass office. Van Owen’s mouth opens in anticipation. He is hungry to strangle the old woman who hurt him so, but he is even hungrier to reach out and touch the little girl. “Regina,” he whispers.

  But it's Carl who draws my attention most. The poor man cannot comprehend why Willa and Regina are there, what they hope to accomplish. Ignoring the shooters above, he waves frantically at Willa and Regina, shouting, “No! Get out!”

  “Carl,” Willa declares with an air of impatience as she raises her free hand, her palm extended as if she is holding up an invisible wall, “watch out for yourself, not us.”

  Carl looks up at the balcony—too late. A gun is aimed directly at him. He wants to dive for cover, but the trigger is already pulled. He can see the shooter’s eyes. He can see the barrel jolt as the bullet leaves it. He can almost see the bullet fly. In that fraction of a second, he feels all the mistakes of his life, all the missed opportunities, all the ways he let down his wife and his children. But the moment extends too long. The bullet hangs suspended in midair only inches from his face, so close that Carl can almost read the insignia on the side, almost trace the tiny grooves that were etched into its sides as it left the gun. The shooter gets off one more round. Carl twitches with the sound of the gunpowder eruption, but this bullet also stops in front of him, hovering beside the first one. The air near Carl seems to pulsate as the two bullets float in space. Then Willa waves her hand, and the two bullets drops to the floor at Carl’s feet.

  Carl looks all around him, wondering how this has happened. The air continues to vibrate above and around Carl and Warren, an invisible barrier protecting them. Carl stares, stupefied.

  “No need to thank me, Carl,” says Willa.

  “I don’t…I don’t understand…” he stutters, but Willa interrupts.

  “Warren,” she calls out, “Regina says you can get us into that office.”

  “Yes, Grandma Willa,” says Warren, understanding instantly that Regina has looked into his mind and seen what he is capable of. “I can do that.”

  “Well,” she says, “now would be a good time.”

  Warren closes his eyes and points both palms toward the door to Van Owen’s office. “Watch this, Pop.” An odd hum rumbles through the stable, deep and raspy, like distortion from a guitar amplifier. Warren’s hands begin to gleam with an odd intensity. There is no crackle of electricity, no lightning branches, only a smooth blue sheen like colored glass that stretches out from Warren’s fingers, reaching slowly across the stable like a theatrical spotlight. It shines on the steel door to Van Owen’s office, pouring over it like liquid, covering it, illuminating it in the same eerie blue glow. For a moment, the gunfire stops as all onlookers simply gaze at the light. The entire stable is silent. Behind the glass wall, even Van Owen is slack-jawed. “Okay,” says Warren softly, his voice strangely calm, “you can go in now.”

  “Thank you, dear,” says Willa. She is still holding Regina’s hand, but she is standing now, not floating. She stretches out her free hand, her fingers stroking what should be the door to Van Owen’s office. Her hand flows through the glowing steel as if it is only a projection of a door.

  “Warren…how are you doing…?” asks a stunned Carl.

  “I don’t know, Pop,” Warren answers. “I just do it.”

  “Come on, Regina,” Willa whispers, “he’s waiting for us.”

  Regina turns back to take one last look at her oldest brother, and then she speaks aloud for the first time in two years. “Thank you, Warren.” She gives him a sad, frightened smile. Then she and Willa step through the bluish door as if it is not even there.

  Carl’s eyes and mouth gape open. He looks as if he can barely breathe. He starts walking toward the transparent office door, but then Jerome charges through the stable entrance, running at full speed. “Warren, hold the door,” he shouts as he tears past his father.

  “No,” cries Carl as he tries to catch up.

  “It’s not your fight anymore,” says Jerome. “It’s ours.” He runs through the blue light, through the door, and comes out on the other side.

 
Carl is only steps behind, but the blue light fades to gray and then to silver and then dissipates entirely, and Carl collides with the door, which has regained its solid steel form. He falls to the ground. Immediately, he is on his feet, pounding on the door. He presses his hands against it, trying to electrify it as Warren did but to no avail. “Make it do that again, Warren! Make it do that again!”

  “I can’t, Pop,” Warren answers in a faint voice. “I’m too…I’m…” He drops to his knees, spent. His hands still glow blue, the shimmer permeating his arms. “Damn,” he whispers, “not again.”

  Carl moves to the glass window, pounding on it, but it is several inches thick. Inside, Van Owen doesn’t even pay attention to the rapping at the window. Jerome, Willa, and Regina are inside with him.

  From above, the shots begin again. One strikes the glass near Carl and ricochets off.

  “Pop,” Warren begs, “you’re out in the open.” Too weak to stand, Warren stumbles over to the overturned carriage where Terry and Marco are hiding. He finds Marco lying on his side, the switchblade still in his hand. His chest is a sheet of blood. His eyes are half-closed. Warren rolls him onto his back and pries the knife from his hand. He rips Marco’s shirt open to examine the wounds. There is so much blood, though, that the wounds are barely visible. For a moment, Warren considers trying to extract the bullets and cauterize—but it is too late, the damage too severe, the old man almost gone.

  Terry’s legs are free, and he manages to twist the chair around so that he is facing Marco. He drags himself closer to Warren, who uses the knife to slice through the duct tape around Terry’s wrists, finally extricating him from the chair. Terry climbs to his knees beside Marco. He tears the tape from his mouth and spits. Then he leans in to Marco. The old man is wheezing, barely able to breathe, but he stretches his arm upward and places a hand on Terry’s shoulder. His mouth twitches as he tries to speak, but no sound comes out.