A Map of Days

by Ransom Riggs

“Do you think they know about Millard stealing from that store?” asked Bronwyn.

  “No way,” I said. “That was too far back.”

  Still, it was clear they were following us. They rode my bumper so hard I thought they might tap it. Then the road widened into a passing lane, and they poured on the speed and pulled up alongside us. But they didn’t turn on their siren or their roller lights. They didn’t shout over the loudspeaker for me to pull over. They just stayed even, the driver’s elbow out his window, real casual, and stared.

  “What do they want?” Bronwyn said.

  “Nothing good,” said Emma.

  The other strange thing about these cops was their patrol car. It was old. Thirty, maybe forty years old. They didn’t make them like that anymore, I pointed out. Hadn’t for a long time.

  “Maybe they can’t afford new ones,” Bronwyn said.

  “Maybe,” I replied.

  The cops braked and fell back. I could see the driver speaking into a CB radio as he receded in my mirror. Then they made a sharp turn, off onto some dirt road, and were out of view.

  “That was so strange,” I said.

  “Let’s get out of here before they come back,” said Enoch. “Portman, quit driving like my nan and stomp that rightmost pedal.”

  “Good idea,” I said, and sped up. But a few miles later, the engine developed an alarming rattle and a red light flashed on the dashboard.

  “Oh, what the hell,” I muttered.

  “Could be simple to fix,” Enoch said. “But I won’t know until I have a look.”

  We had just passed a sun-faded billboard that read WELCOME TO STARKE, POP. 502.

  Beyond it was a handmade sign that read SNAKES 4 SALE—PETS OR MEAT.

  The car’s rattle grew steadily louder. I really did not want to stop in the town of Starke, pop. 502, but it seemed we had little choice. So I pulled into a truck wash with a mostly deserted parking lot and we all got out to watch Enoch poke around under the hood.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” he said, emerging after a brief investigation. “I see which part failed, but I can’t understand what happened to it. It should last a hundred thousand miles.”

  “Do you think someone tampered with it?” I said.

  Enoch scratched his chin, transferring a smear of engine oil to his face. “I don’t see how that’s possible, but I’m not sure how else to explain it.”

  “We don’t care how it broke,” Emma said. “Only whether you can fix it.”

  “And how fast,” Bronwyn said, glancing at the darkening sky.

  It was getting toward evening, and thunderclouds were gathering in the distance. It was shaping up to be a nasty night.

  “Of course I can do it,” Enoch said, puffing his chest, “though I might need a bit of help from the human blowtorch here.” He cocked his head toward Emma. “How long depends on a few things.”

  “Evening,” said a new voice, and we turned to see a boy standing a little ways away, on a rise where the parking lot met a field of wild grass.

  He looked about thirteen. He had brown skin and wore an old-style shirt and a flat cap. He spoke softly and walked more softly still—so much that none of us had heard him approach.

  “Where’d you come from?” Bronwyn said. “You scared me!”

  “Over yonder,” the boy said. He pointed to the field behind him. “My name’s Paul. You need some help?”

  “Not unless you have a twin-choke downdraft carburetor for a 1979 Aston Martin Vantage,” said Enoch.

  “Nope,” said Paul. “But we’ve got a place you can hide that thing while you tinker with it.”

  That got our attention. Enoch drew his head out from under the hood.

  “And who are we supposed to be hiding from?”

  Paul studied us for a moment. He was engulfed in shadow, silhouetted against the sky’s last light, and I couldn’t read his expression. He cut a strangely authoritative figure for a boy his age.

  “Y’all ain’t from here, are you?”

  “We’re from England,” said Emma.

  “Well,” he said. “Around here, folks like us don’t want to be out after dark unless they’ve got a damn good reason to be.”

  “What do you mean, like us?” said Emma.

  “You’re not the first out-of-town peculiars to have an automobile breakdown along this particular stretch of road.”

  “What did he—” said Millard, daring to speak for the first time. “Did you just say peculiar?”

  The boy didn’t seem at all surprised to hear words emanating from the empty air. “I know what you are. I’m one, too.” He turned and began to walk into the field. “Come on. You don’t want to be here when the people who sprung this trap come to see what they caught. And bring that car, too,” he called over his shoulder. “I reckon the strong one can just push it.”

  We watched him go, amazed, but unsure of what to do. Our interactions with peculiars in this part of the world had left us wary. Then Emma leaned into me and said, “We should ask him about the—”

  And at the very moment she said the words they flashed into view in the distance, beyond the field Paul was crossing, written in neon.

  FLAMING MAN

  It was a sign. A literal and actual one made of neon. It had once read FLAMINGO MANOR, but a few letters had burned out. The manor itself—or whatever it was—was mostly obscured by a stand of pine trees.

  Emma and I looked at each other, thunderstruck and smiling.

  “Well,” she said. “You heard the young man.”

  “Peculiars have to stick together,” I said.

  And we all started after him.

  We followed the boy through the field, down a dirt path that was grassed over and hidden from the road. Bronwyn was at the rear, grunting as she pushed the hobbled Aston over uneven terrain. Aside from the occasional car passing along the main road or the hiss of air brakes at the truck wash behind us, the evening was quiet.

  We passed the old motel sign and cleared the trees, and there was the motel—or what was left of it. It had probably been the height of cool in about 1955, with its flying-V roof, kidney-shaped pool, and detached bungalows, but now it did a passable impression of an abandoned building. The roof was patched with tarps. The courtyard was a jungle of overgrown trees. Junk cars were rusting in the pitted parking lot. The pool was empty save a few inches of green water and a long, loaf-shaped thing that might have been—though it was hard to tell in the near-dark—an alligator.

  “Don’t mind the look of the place,” said Paul. “It’s nicer on the inside.”

  “There’s no way I’m going in there,” said Bronwyn.

  “It’s got to be a loop, dear,” said Millard. “In which case, I’m certain it’s nicer on the inside.”

  Loops were often downright frightening at their entrance points—it helped keep normal people away—and the Peculiar Planet guide had mentioned “looped accommodations” near Mermaid Fantasyland. The Flaming Man must’ve been it. And if that weren’t a good enough reason to follow the boy, we also couldn’t leave until Enoch fixed the car.

  “Look,” Bronwyn hissed, and we turned toward the truck wash. The old police car was back, driving slowly past it, its searchlight panning from side to side.

  “I’m going in,” said Paul, his voice edged with a new urgency. “I advise that you follow.”

  We took no convincing.

  Paul led us into a long, covered porte cochere that led through the parking lot to the inner courtyard of the motel. We ventured inside, Bronwyn pushing the car behind us. At the halfway point I felt a quickening, and, in a flash, the dusk before us turned to daylight. We came out into a cool, bright morning and a neat, paved courtyard that was ringed by motel rooms, which were day-glo pink and almost new. Now there were no tarps on the roof, the pool sparkled with blue water, and the
junk cars in the parking lot were gone, replaced with cars from the fifties and sixties in terrific shape. That’s when we must’ve been—the late sixties or early seventies.

  “A loop entrance built to accommodate cars,” Millard said. “How modern!”

  I ran ahead to catch up with Paul. “Okay, we’re here. Now, will you answer our questions?”

  “You’d better ask Miss Billie,” he said. “She runs the place.”

  He led us across the courtyard toward a bungalow that was set apart from the rest and had a sign next to it that read OFFICE.

  “Leave that,” Paul said to Bronwyn. “No one will bother it.”

  She stopped pushing the Aston and jogged to catch up with the group. There were other people here, on this side of the loop. A couple of old men sat by the pool doing crossword puzzles and lowered their papers to stare as we passed by. A curtain in another bungalow moved, and a woman’s face peered through the window at us.

  “Miss Billie?” Paul said, knocking on the door to the office. He opened it and gestured for us to go inside. “These people broke down.”

  We filed into a room with a registration desk and a few chairs. The woman Paul had addressed was sitting in one. She was an older white lady, and she wore a nice dress and lipstick and held three miniature poodles in her lap, her arms encircling them protectively.

  “Oh Lord,” the woman said in a thick southern accent. The poodles trembled. She made no move to get up. “Anyone see ’em come in?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Paul.

  “What about the highwaymen?”

  “No sign of them.”

  If the highwaymen were those guys in the police car, Paul had just lied for us. I wasn’t sure why, but I was grateful nonetheless.

  “I don’t like it,” Miss Billie said, shaking her head firmly. “It’s a risk. Every time, it’s a risk. But so long as you’re here . . .” She lowered her horn-rimmed glasses a bit and looked at us. “Don’t reckon I can just throw you to the wolves, now can I?”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Paul said, “I’ve got some things to tend to.”

  Paul went out. Miss Billie kept her eyes locked on us. “You ain’t gonna turn old on me, are you? I got enough old folks here as it is, and if you’re fixin to die you can just go on and do it somewhere else.”

  “We’re not going to die,” I said. “We just have some questions.”

  “Such as, are you the headmistress here?” said Bronwyn.

  Miss Billie frowned. “Head-what?”

  “An ymbryne,” said Bronwyn.

  “Oh, Lordy!” Miss Billie said, rearing back in her chair. “Do I really look that old?”

  “She’s a demi-ymbryne,” Emma said.

  “It’s like an ymbryne-lite,” I explained to our friends.

  “I’m the manager and that’s enough,” said Miss Billie. “I collect the money and try to keep the place from falling down. Rex stops in every few weeks to wind the clock.” She pointed to a grandfather clock that stood against the opposite wall. Old, massive, and incongruously ornate, it looked out of place amid the gaudy motel decor.

  “Rex?” I said.

  “Rex Posthlewaite, loop-keeper extraordinare. He does plumbing and a little electrical, too, though he ain’t licensed.”

  “Let me get this straight. You don’t have an ymbryne here, and the fake one only stops by every few weeks?”

  “Only he can wind it. Or another loop-keeper, I suppose. But Rex works the whole northern part of Florida, so the pickings are mighty slim.”

  “What if he gets sick?” asked Millard.

  “Or dies?” said Enoch.

  “He ain’t allowed to.”

  “What is this thing, anyway?” said Enoch, stepping toward the clock. “I’ve never seen a—”

  All three dogs began to yap loudly.

  “Don’t you go near that!” Miss Billie snapped.

  Enoch spun away from it. “I was only looking!”

  “Don’t look at it, neither,” said Miss Billie. “Can’t have you messin’ with my loop clock, boy. You could knock everything out of whack.”

  Enoch folded his arms and fumed. I figured it was time to get down to business, so once the dogs stopped barking, I said, “I’ve got something for you.”

  I held out the package from H, the one marked Flaming Man.

  She peered at it over the rim of her glasses. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but if you’re the manager, then I think it’s for you.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “You open it.”

  I tore the paper open. I’d been dying to see what was inside ever since H had given it to me.

  It was a pouch of dog treats. BIG FLAVOR! BIG FUN! read the label.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” muttered Emma.

  Miss Billie’s face lit up. “How nice! These are the girls’ favorite!” The dogs saw the pouch and started squirming. Miss Billie snatched it from me and held it high above their heads. “Eh! Eh! Don’t be greedy!”

  “We went through all that to deliver some dog food?” said Enoch.

  “Not just any old dog food,” said Miss Billie, turning to drop the pouch into her purse as the dogs’ noses followed it.

  “You’re not curious who it’s from?” said Emma.

  “I know who it’s from. When you see him, thank him kindly for me, and tell him he’s back on my Christmas list. Now—” She squeezed the dogs tight to her chest and stood up with them held against her. “I got to take the girls for a tinkle, so here’s the rules of my place. Number one, don’t touch my clock. Number two, we don’t like noise or commotion here, so don’t go making any. Number three, there’s a filling station with a garage next door where you can work on your busted car. When you’re done, I expect you to be gone. There’s no vacancy.”

  She turned to go.

  “Have you got anything for us?” I asked.

  She frowned. “Like what?”

  “A clue,” I said. “We’re looking for a . . . portal?” At the very least, I had hoped she might give me something useful in return for the package—a section of map, a postcard with an address on it—something that could help us find our next destination.

  “Oh, honey. If you don’t have a clue, I’m afraid I can’t help you!” She laughed out loud. “Now go on, I’ve got to walk the girls.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Out in the courtyard, the residents of Flamingo Manor watched us through their blinds as we talked by the deserted swimming pool.

  “Dog food,” Bronwyn said. “I can’t believe it.”

  “The contents of the package hardly matter,” said Enoch. “Only that we delivered it.”

  “He wants to know he can rely on us,” I said.

  Paul came over to where we were standing.

  “I’ve talked to the garage next door,” he said, pointing to a building beyond the Flamingo’s bungalows. “They have some spare parts, though I don’t know about any carburetors.”

  “Even a socket wrench would be better than nothing,” Enoch replied. “Thanks.”

  Paul nodded and hurried off again, and we huddled up to plan our next move.

  “What about the next place—this portal?” asked Bronwyn. “How do we find it?”

  “We’ll ask around,” said Emma. “Somebody’s bound to know.”

  “Unless H sent us here for no reason,” said Enoch, “other than to test our patience.”

  “He wouldn’t have,” Emma said.

  Enoch kicked a beach ball that was lying at his feet. It went flying into the pool. “Maybe you’re not used to having tricks played on you, but it’s just the sort of thing Abe would have done—to me, anyway—and this bloke worked for him.”

  “With him,” said Emma, who still soured the moment anyon
e criticized my grandfather.

  “Same thing!”

  “Just go and fix the car!” she shouted. “That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Enoch looked stung. “Come on, Bronwyn,” he mumbled, “the queen’s giving orders again.”

  He and Bronwyn went to the car. Enoch got in, pointed to the garage, and shouted, “MUSH!”

  Bronwyn shook her head and sighed. “I’d better get a double helping of supper after all this,” she said, then put her hands on the bumper and started pushing.

  “Well, hello, young man. Hello, young lady!”

  I turned to see a smiling man striding toward me. He wrapped a big, calloused hand around mine, and we shook. “Adelaide Pollard, very pleased to meet you.” He was a tall black man in a beautiful blue suit and a matching hat. He looked about seventy, but might’ve been older, this being a loop.

  “Adelaide,” said Emma, smiling like I’d never seen her smile at a stranger. “That’s not a usual name!”

  “Well, I’m not a usual man! What brings you all to our little neck of the swamp?”

  “We stopped at a place called Mermaid Fantasyland,” said Millard, and I saw Adelaide’s face cloud. “I think they tried to put a spell on us, or some such thing.”

  “We got away,” said Emma, “but then some policemen followed us, and pretty soon after that, our car broke down.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that,” he said. “It’s just sad, people pulling this stuff on their own kind. Just sad.”

  “Who are they?” Emma said.

  “Nothing but slimy reprobates,” he said. “They try to lure out-of-town peculiars who don’t know better into their little trap, and then they sell ’em to the highwaymen.”

  “You mean the cops?” I said.

  “Pretend cops. They’re like a gang, you could say. They go up and down the highway, harassing folks, stealing, playing like they own the whole county. Ain’t nothing but thugs and shakedown artists.”

  “Used to be we only had those shadow monsters to worry about.” An old white man in a wheelchair came up behind Adelaide. The left leg of his pants was rolled up and pinned, and he held an ashtray in his lap into which he tapped a lit cigar. “I swear, sometimes I miss ’em. Ever since the monsters disappeared, these highwaymen have been running wild. They think they can do whatever they like.” He puffed his cigar through the gap in his missing front teeth. “Al Potts, by the way.” He gave us a little salute. “Mr. Potts to you.”