Timeshares

by Jean Rabe

  With a wide smile, he explains the various features of the hidden camera staff. “Near the top of the staff there is a clear crystal rod helping to align the camera. You just line up the shot and press on a knot sticking out the side. This is our best technology camera; it can take photographs in near total darkness. With no drain due to flash, the initial charge and internal memory will last for just over four hundred pictures. Anyone can operate it, but only a real photographer like yourself would know how to get the best shots.”

  They want me to take photos of the day-to-day life and also something rumored to be out of the ordinary. Yeah right! I’m just walking around an ancient world in animal skins carrying a mystic’s staff that can take pictures. Seems like everything will be out of the ordinary.

  They place my former belongings in a locker and pat me down to make sure I’m not bringing anything else along for the ride. Then he brings over a large jar. He twists the lid off and the pungent smell sets me back. He dips his hands in and rubs them together. Now he starts to rub the stench into my hair. I glance over as Becca unsuccessfully stifles a laugh.

  “Hey, why do I get smelly dung wiped in my hair and she gets to keep hers combed with colorful beads decorating it?”

  He continues until my hair is fully coated in the goo. “You see, Peno, you are a magician type character from the north. You need to get close to nature to achieve your visions. Beccatelravole is your guide as you travel into the southern lands. She will interpret your visions and provide cover for you. You will not exactly fit in; but that is part of the ruse. Your mannerisms, posture, and voice will be vastly different. She is the one who will bridge the gap. While you shake your staff and look through the crystal, she will explain it to the clans that it is part of your mystical ways. It will help disarm any hostility they may have toward you. The smell in your hair will keep the locals from wanting to get too close.”

  I shrug. I guess it makes sense. Distracted, Becca approaches and jams a long needle through my leathers.

  “Hey! How does this all translate as a vacation for me?”

  This brings a stern look and a wag of a finger from the little man. “See here, Mr. Lynch, we didn’t promise you a cruise to the Bahamas. We offered you a chance to ‘travel back to the lands of your ancestors and meet your long- lost relatives,’ and that, Penobscot, is exactly what you are going to do!”

  I keep a close eye on Becca as she sets down the needle.

  We are taken to a room with multiple large glass capsules. We are secured inside and the covers are lowered. The lights are turned off, and the next thing I know we are in a forest clearing looking up at the stars. It is breathtaking just to see how bright the stars are. The air feels thicker, and the sounds of the night are all around.

  “So Becca-tella-ra-volie, I wouldn’t have believed any of this yesterday. This is amazing!”

  She stands up and secures the pack to her back. “Don’t try to pronounce my full name on this trip; we will not be here long enough. Stick to just Becca. Oh, and stay close. We will arrive at the village around sunrise. Try not to gawk too much. Just relax and go with the flow.”

  She offers me a hand up.

  My legs are a bit uneasy and my stomach is starting to churn.

  We weave through thick brush before finding a straight, clear path. The stars give enough light so that I can see the path extends almost perfectly straight to both horizons.

  “Becca, we really are in the past, aren’t we?” I point down the road.

  She steps closer. “Yes. Just because modern man paints the past as stone wielding cavemen doesn’t mean that is truly how it is. You may not see any cell phones, but that doesn’t mean that ancient man wasn’t as innovative and exacting. The pyramids were built thousands of years ago, but no one in modern times with modern equipment has ever tried to duplicate them. There are countless wonders all over the past. Most just couldn’t survive for thousands of years to be proven true. This is where your pictures will come in handy.”

  Becca leads us down the path. I start to think of the smell in my hair and those bears she spoke of. I jump at every noise and just about lose it when a small deer darts out about ten feet from us. Becca plods forward.

  After a few hours the trees give way to a wooden wall. Tree trunks stripped of bark and buried into the ground reach almost twenty feet into the air. Every few feet thick ropes are woven in opposite directions, holding them together. When the wooden wall reaches the edge of the road I can make out a small break. The opening is about ten feet across, and a series of smaller logs are crossed and bound with rope. Between the crossed logs, long spears point outward. I look close and note that the spear heads are multifaceted stone bladed tips covered in a yellow green paste.

  Several natives are also blocking the way. Seeing us, they turn and call over their shoulders in a language I don’t comprehend. A bulky woman strides forward and chatters with Becca, occasionally pointing toward me. I hear my new name repeated a few times in the discussion.

  After a moment, everyone relaxes and motions us inside.

  Becca leans in. “She wanted to know if you were the magic man I was asked to bring.”

  We attract a small crowd as the sky turns from pink to a brighter yellow. Light pours in as we walk inside the walled area. I expect a small village, but I’m surprised by this place—it’s about the size of a large sports stadium. The oval-shaped tree wall encircles a series of about forty thatched buildings. Becca and I are taken to the large building in the center. Smoke rises slowly from two of the thatch peaks. It is a mystical sight, watching the morning breeze guide the smoke toward the rising sun.

  I decide it’s time to use my staff, and that I should have gotten a few pictures of the long path. At first I make up nonsensical words as I shake the staff. The crystals rattles and heads turn. I realize I don’t have to make up gibberish, English would sound just as confusing.

  This is almost fun, and the children seem to enjoy my act. I wonder if Timeshares will let me to keep some of the pictures.

  Becca stops me just short of entering the large building.

  “This is our real mission. Inside is said to be a dying giant. These people think it is one of the old gods, but we think it’s just a species overlooked by time. You know, lost to the ages. I told them you are a follower of this god and need to help him pass on.”

  “When and where are we exactly, Becca? I know I should have asked this right away, but I was just too caught up in everything. This giant isn’t one of those short-faced bears you told me about, is it?”

  Becca kneels and hands out skins and beads to the local children as she responds. “The giant they speak of is a humanoid creature. They will not let any outsider near it. At this time most of the people in this village know the people from our office well—we’ve been coming here for a while. That’s why we needed someone new, and a photographer at that. We needed an outsider, one with real reddish hair. I rightly assumed they’d think you came from the Anishna to the north. They have been at war with the Anishna for more than a thousand years, and through those years they have learned to respect the supposed magic the Anishna wield.”

  I look around and finally notice that nearly everyone carries a weapon of sorts, either holding spears or touching hatchetlike tools on their belts. Wonderful. No point in turning back now. I forcefully shake my staff. It makes the older folks flinch and the young ones giggle. I leave Becca behind and follow my guide inside the tent.

  It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust. I move the staff around and take a series of pictures. Most of my shots are directed at the large mound in the center. Firelight dances on the inside of the thatch. I see an outline of a raised straw bed. On top of this is a massive man, likely eight feet tall. His hands are huge; each finger looks to be at least an inch in diameter. I shake my staff to calm my nerves before I realize I may have awakened the giant. I take several more shots and walk closer.

  The giant is breathing. He wears only a
loincloth and is covered in strange tattoos. I am in awe of this man.

  One of the younger boys climbs up the side and offers the giant some water. The giant turns his head to the boy but does not open his eyes. Judging by the blackness around his sockets, he may not have been able to. I take more photos and I start to feel that the giant is near death. His hair is a matted, dirty blond and doesn’t fit with the dark hair of the villagers.

  I spend the rest of the day meeting various villagers. Becca translates—at least I think she does. With the occasional giggle from the crowd and the blush in Becca’s face, I think I am the butt of a few jokes.

  The next day, Becca wakes me. “Penobscot, they want you to help the soul cross over.”

  We rush to the large central building.

  The giant is coughing up blood. I wave my staff and in English ask the spirits to take him someplace peaceful.

  This is not a time for photos.

  That night they take his body to an open fire pit stacked with logs and branches. The giant is set ablaze.

  From what I gathered, the villagers found him wandering down one of the roads a few months ago and befriended him. They believed him one of the great giants who pushed back the walls of ice.

  The following days fly by. I am saddened when Becca tells me we need to leave. We are given food and water for our trip, and Becca has to drag me away.

  We find our way back to the clearing. Becca and I lay in the grass, gazing up at the stars.

  “Becca, thank for bringing me on this magnificent journey.”

  She smiles. “You’re not so bad. Maybe you should join the team.”

  “You mean Timeshares would hire me?”

  Becca gives me a serious look. “Sure. You might be asked to risk your life now and again for some good photo opportunities, though.”

  I am in shock. I have found my dream job. “Do they offer a good employee package? What would they pay me to start?”

  Becca looks up at the stars as she answers. “They offer the greatest paycheck anyone could wish for, a reawakened joy of life.” How true those words are.

  The return trip is a bit more traumatic. A bright light comes out of the sky and blinds me. I wake up in Timeshare’s office.

  I change back into my modern clothes and meet Becca in the front office. She offers to buy me breakfast. One thing gnaws at me that I need to clear up.

  “Becca, you didn’t seem too concerned about our crossing paths with the man-eating cats and the huge skull-crushing bears. Were you just trying to scare me? Or did such things exist?”

  “This last trip was only about seven thousand years ago. You will not have to worry about those bears until,” she pauses to think and glances at a calendar, “. . . a week from next Tuesday. We need you to photograph the first meeting between the Clovis and the Karquees in 12,560 b.c. Those bears surprise us all the time around that area. Just stand tall and wave your magical staff to scare them, and get off a few good photos in the process.”

  “You really think that will work? Are they scared by the crystals?”

  “I doubt it, but it might buy you some time to run away. Just think how cool those photos would be. And don’t worry, I’ll frame one and put it on my desk to remind me of your heroism.”

  She opens the door, and we head to Destiny’s Diner.

  The Shaman

  Annie Jones

  Annie Jones is the youngest grandma you ever saw and just beginning to write fiction. She has a story in Terribly Twisted Tales, and now one in Timeshares. She thanks Jean Rabe for sharing her knowledge about writing, which includes everything from soup to nuts and beyond. Annie enjoys working in her yard, digging and planting with hopes that things will grow like they are supposed to according to directions, which is not always the case. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband of many years and one dominating Yorkshire terrier.

  “I need a vacation,” I said to myself. I’d had a stressful month at my job as supervisor of the perfume counter at one of the local department stores in Columbus, Ohio. I’d been thinking a while about a visit to some of the ancient Indian ruins in the Southwest, perhaps Arizona, inspired by my studies of ancient Southwest history.

  So this particular July day as I walked home from work, I spied a travel agency sign that was swinging in the breeze like a hand beckoning from a shaded side street away from the bustle of traffic.

  The doorway was hung with those long strings of colored glass beads that were popular back in the sixties. I stuck my head through the beads and they gave a friendly, welcome jingle. There were no computers or telephones that I noticed, just a strange looking little man sitting behind a bare table. His hair was gun-metal gray and hung down to his shoulders. The brown leather vest he wore over a red flannel shirt was ornamented by a string of oddly shaped turquoise beads. His legs were stretched out to their fullest, and I could see brown leather leggings and moccasins beneath the table.

  “Come in, traveler.” He motioned to me. He looked harmless, so being the trusting soul that I am, I walked in. I was surprised to find the floor covered with about an inch of sand. Nothing like atmosphere, I thought.

  “I can tell,” he said, “you are looking to take a trip. A trip for a little rest and to find some excitement. Where would you like to go?” He paused. “The Southwest.” He answered himself. “Maybe some of the ancient Indian ruins?” His brown wrinkled face looked as if it might crack when he smiled warmly at me.

  “How did you know?” I was surprised that he had guessed correctly.

  “Oh, sometimes I can tell just by studying a person some. I have a brochure right here, and I know you will enjoy this trip.” He pushed a packet to the edge of the table. A gold ring worn smooth by the years gleamed on his finger.

  I checked the itinerary, and to my astonishment, the trip was scheduled for today, a little earlier than I had been planning to leave. The brochure, filled with colorful pictures, told me I wanted to go to Verde Valley near Sedona, Arizona.

  “Hurry home, pack light, return here within two hours, and we will send you on your way.” He had a strange but familiar singsong voice.

  At that particular time, being brain dead from stress at work, it did not strike me as somewhat unusual having plans made out for me on such short order. So I rushed home, packed items I deemed necessary in my backpack, along with a few articles of clothing tucked in—I had plans to replenish my closet in Sedona. In less than two hours, I was back at the travel agency, backpack slung over my shoulder.

  “First, we must get a picture of you. Please step into this little nook over here.” He guided me to a bright capsulelike container that I had not noticed the first time I went in. He mumbled something about being an “accidental visitor” or “accidental tourist” from the other side.

  “Accidental Tourist?” I mused. I’d seen that movie years back.

  He mumbled something else about me being his first customer, so to speak.

  “Speak of what? Accidental what?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Just sit right there on the little stool, and we’ll get you going, ma’am. Let’s see if I’ve figured out how to use this contraption correctly,” he said as he fumbled around with various colored buttons on the capsule. “Oh, and give my regards to the goddess if you should happen to see her.”

  I was just about to ask him the cost of my vacation and about airline reservations and such—he hadn’t even asked my name or to see a credit card. But he shut the door and quick as a blink, I was no longer in the little chamber, or anywhere else in Columbus, but standing in the middle of a narrow dirt road surrounded by mountains of red rock, backpack still slung over my shoulder. I was startled, angry, frightened—a dozen things at once. Upon gathering my wits, I began following the road with hopes of finding someone who could tell me where I was.

  The temp, I was certain, must have been somewhere around 118 degrees. I imagined myself melting right into the ground as I hiked over the rough terrain. After a short
distance, I saw a path leading off the road to a grove of trees and decided some shade would be most welcome.

  When I had packed my backpack I had actually given myself over to thoughts of survival. In case I happened to wander off the beaten path, I had packed a flashlight, a box of matches, a bottle of aspirin, some packages of peanut butter crackers—the orange kind that kids take to school in their lunch boxes. I also had a neatly folded yellow poncho decorated with leopard spots and six small bottles of Gatorade.

  As I sat on the ground, leaning back against a tree, sipping my Gatorade, I saw that at the base of a cliff in the distance was a ruin that must have been deserted for decades.

  Suddenly I stopped worrying about how I got here.

  Ruins! This was just what I wanted to see.

  I walked toward the cliff for a closer look and sensed a foreboding pall descending on the area. Being a lover of ancient Southwest history, my heart was touched as I looked at the small handprints that had patted the clay mud flat to make an outer wall for one of the rooms. The prints were not much bigger than a child’s. The walls were in pretty good shape with some crumbling, but years ago someone had lived behind them.

  Several of the prints were a little larger than the rest and had an odd indent on the third finger of the right hand. I was certain the prints were the same size as mine. Reaching up, I placed my hands, fingers spread, into the hardened prints.

  “My God, a perfect fit.” It was as if a bolt of lightning hit me. I fell, from heat exhaustion or surprise, and I’ve no idea how long I was out.

  As I finally came to, I was aware of people standing around me speaking in a language I did not understand. I concentrated, and after a few moments it sounded as if they might be using an offshoot of Spanish. I speak a few words of that language—I studied it for two years in high school—but the dialect was wholly unfamiliar to me. Still, I managed to make out a few words: “woman,” “strange” or “odd,” and “pale.” All of them were obviously directed toward me. Could they be speaking an Indian language?