A Map of Days

by Ransom Riggs

  I was underprepared and overconfident. I couldn’t blame Miss Peregrine for that. So I couldn’t even be mad at her, really, or at my friends. The more I mulled it over, the more my anger homed in on someone else. A person who hadn’t even been present. A person who wasn’t even alive: my grandfather. He had known, my whole life, who I was. He had known, as a peculiar, what I would have to face one day. But he had not prepared me for it at all.

  Why? Because I’d been rude to him in the fourth grade? Because I’d hurt his feelings? It was hard to believe he could’ve been so petty. Or was it, as Miss Peregrine had once suggested, because he was trying to spare me pain? Because he wanted me to grow up feeling normal?

  It was a sweet idea, on its face. But not if I interrogated it a little bit. Because he knew. He had lived here, in this complicated and bloody and divided peculiar America. If he was really withholding the truth in order to spare me pain, he knew it was putting me at risk. Even if the hollows never got me, some gang of peculiar Americans would have sniffed me out eventually. Imagine my surprise, had I found out I was peculiar that way, as some heartless highwayman’s feral prize.

  Abe left me without a map, without a key, without a clue. Without a single hint about how to navigate this strange new reality. It had been his duty to tell me, and he had not.

  How could he have been so careless?

  Because he didn’t care.

  That nasty little voice in my head, back again.

  I couldn’t believe he hadn’t cared. There had to be some other answer.

  And then I realized there was someone still living who might know it.

  “Rafael?”

  The bone-mender stirred. He’d been sleeping in a chair by the window, the blue light of early morning washing over him.

  “Yes, Master Portman?”

  “I need to get out of this bed.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Three hours later, I was up and moving again. I had a purple bruise under one eye and my ribs still ached, but otherwise Rafael had worked miracles and I was feeling pretty good. I made my way back toward Bentham’s Panloopticon as stealthily as I could, but there were people everywhere—the morning rush was in full swing—and I got stopped a few times for autographs. (It still surprised me every time I was recognized. I had spent so much of my life as an unremarkable nobody, that whenever I was approached my first thought was that they had confused me for someone else.)

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave the Acre. I was risking being seen by someone who would report me to Miss Peregrine. But that wasn’t at the top of my list of concerns. I managed to make it through the front door, down the main hall, and upstairs to the Panloopticon hallways without being recognized. When the clerk at the Panloopticon entrance did, I told him I was going home and he waved me through. I ran down the hall, past busy travelers and officials at checkpoint desks and Sharon’s voice booming from an open door. I rounded a corner into the shorter hall, where my door was, found the broom closet marked A. PEREGRINE AND WARDS ONLY, and dove inside.

  I walked out of the potting shed into the slanting sun and muggy heat of a Florida afternoon.

  My friends were in Devil’s Acre. My parents were traveling in Asia.

  The house was empty.

  I went inside, settled onto a sofa in the living room, and took my phone out of my pocket. It still had a little battery left. I dialed H’s number. After three rings, a man answered.

  “Hong’s.”

  “I’m calling for H,” I said.

  “Hold on.”

  In the background I could hear voices, the noise of clattering plates. Then H came on the line.

  “Hello?” he said warily.

  “It’s Jacob.”

  “I figured the ymbrynes would have had you under lock and key by now.”

  “Not quite,” I said, “but they’re pretty angry. I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy if they knew I was calling you, either.”

  He chuckled. “I’m sure they wouldn’t.” I knew he was angry with me, too. I could hear it in his voice. But he seemed to have forgiven me already, probably even before we’d talked. “Hey, I’m glad you’re all right. You had me worried.”

  “Yeah. I had me worried, too.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you listen to me? Now things are all fouled up.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Let me help fix it.”

  “No, thank you. You’ve done quite enough.”

  “I should’ve aborted the mission when you told me to,” I said. “But—” I hesitated, worried this would sound like an accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me we were doing something illegal?”

  “Illegal? Where’d you get that?”

  “It’s the clans’ law. You can’t take an uncontacted peculiar—”

  “We should all be free to go where we like,” he interrupted. “Any law that takes your freedom away should be ignored.”

  “Well, I agree. But the ymbrynes are trying to negotiate a peace treaty between the clans, and—”

  “You think I don’t know that?” he said, getting frustrated. “The clans will go to war if that’s what they want to do, and don’t let anyone fool you into thinking it’s got anything to do with you or me. Anyway, there’s bigger things at stake than whether the damned clans want to fight with one another.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Like the girl.”

  “You mean Noor.”

  “Of course I mean her. And don’t say her name out loud again.”

  “Why is she so important?”

  “I’m not going to tell you over an unsecured telephone line. And, anyhow, you don’t need to know. Truth is, I should never have gotten you involved in the first place. I went against my better judgment. I broke a promise, too, and I’m sick about it. You nearly got killed because of it.”

  “What promise? To who?”

  There was a pause. I might’ve thought the line had gone dead, but I could hear dishes rattling in the background. Finally, he said, “To your grandfather.”

  Which reminded me of the reason I’d called H in the first place.

  “Why?” I said. “Why did he never tell me anything? Why would he ask you to keep secrets from me?”

  “Because he wanted to protect you, son.”

  “That was never going to be possible. All it did was leave me totally unprepared.”

  “He always meant to tell you who you were. But he died too soon to do it himself.”

  “Then what was he protecting me from?”

  “From our work. He didn’t want you involved.”

  “Then why did he send me postcards from your missions? Or make maps for me? Or make my nickname the passcode to the bunker under his house?”

  I heard H take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He was leaving you tools in case of emergency. But that’s it. Now, I’m afraid you caught me on my way out.”

  “To do what?”

  “One last job,” he replied. “Then I’m retired for good.”

  “You’re going to try to get her back, aren’t you?”

  “That’s no business of yours.”

  “Wait for me. I’ll come to you. I want to help. Please.”

  “No, thank you. Like I said, you’ve done quite enough—and you don’t take orders.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Okay, then take this order. Go back to your life. Go back to your ymbrynes and your safe little world, because you aren’t ready for this one yet. Maybe we’ll meet again, someday, when you are.”

  And then he hung up.

  I stood in my living room, phone in hand, still listening to the silence on the dead line. My mind was racing. I had to get to H, and quickly. I had to help him. I was green and inexperienced, yes, but he was old and out of practice. He needed me, even
if he wouldn’t admit it. He was right about one thing, though—I was terrible at taking orders. Oh, well; it was a second chance at helping Noor. Maybe just a sliver of a chance, but at this point I would take what I could get.

  First, I would have to find H. Luckily, I knew right where to start looking: on the book of matches where I’d first gotten his phone number. It was from a Chinese restaurant somewhere in Manhattan. When I’d called him this time, I’d heard what sounded like a restaurant in the background—a busy kitchen, maybe, or the dish prep area—and I was pretty sure someone who worked there had answered the phone. I figured H lived in the back, or above it. The name and address were on the matchbook, so it would be easy enough to find. I just had to get to New York.

  This time I didn’t pack a bag or bring anything special. I changed the clothes I’d been in for days, which were bloodstained and beginning to smell a bit ripe. And then I ran out the back door and into the potting shed. Once I’d come out the other side and I was in the Panloopticon’s hallway, I knew just where to go. Miss Peregrine had brought us back from New York through a door halfway down the hall on the Panloopticon’s upper level. All I had to do was retrace our steps from the day before. It would’ve attracted too much attention to run, so I walked quickly with my head down, hoping none of the travelers or transport agents or desk clerks would notice me. I had made it all the way to the stairwell and up the stairs into the upper hall without being stopped when I ran face-first into a giant black wall.

  The wall spoke, and the booming basso voice that came out of it was unmistakably Sharon’s. “Portman! Aren’t you supposed to be in Miss Wren’s new menagerie loop scraping out grimbear cages?”

  Miss Peregrine had stormed out before she’d told me what my punishment was, but somehow Sharon knew. Embarrassing news travels fast.

  “How did you hear about that?” I said.

  “The walls have ears, my friend. I’ll show you sometime; they need regular de-waxing.”

  I shuddered and tried to put the image out of my mind. “I was on my way there now.”

  “How strange. That loop is downstairs.” He crossed his arms and leaned down. “You caused quite a stir around here, you know that? Ruffled a lot of feathers.”

  “My friends and I didn’t mean to upset anyone. Really.”

  “I’m not saying you did a bad thing.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes feathers need to be ruffled. If you take my meaning.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, fidgeting nervously. At any moment an ymbryne could’ve walked by and seen me.

  “Not everyone likes the way the ymbrynes have been running things. They’re too used to making all the decisions by themselves. They don’t consult anyone. They don’t ask for opinions.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said.

  “Do you?”

  I did. I just didn’t want to talk about it right at that moment.

  Sharon leaned closer and whispered in my ear. His breath was cold and smelled like the earth. “There’s a meeting next Saturday evening at the old abattoir. I’d like to see you there.”

  “What kind of meeting?” I said.

  “Just some like-minded people kicking around ideas. Your presence would be much appreciated.”

  I peered into his hood. There was a faint shine of white teeth, engulfed in darkness.

  “I’ll come,” I said. “But don’t expect me to go against the ymbrynes.”

  The gleam in his hood widened into a smile. “Isn’t that where you’re going now?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Sharon stood up to his full height, then stepped out of my way. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  He extended his hand. “You’ll need this.” It was a ticket. On one side was printed MINISTRY OF TEMPORAL AFFAIRS, and on the other side, ANYWHERE. “The American loops are closely guarded. The situation there is tense. Can’t let just anyone go.”

  I tried to take the ticket from him, but he didn’t let it go at first.

  “Saturday,” he said, then opened his hand.

  * * *

  • • •

  Now that I was traveling alone, moving from place to place was easier. After having to worry over the whereabouts of three or four other people for most of the last week, it was freeing to be able to speed-walk down a crowded hall without checking over my shoulder, to slip effortlessly into a crowd, to hand the clerk just my own ticket. He was a big man perched on a tiny stool behind a desk, and he looked at my ANYWHERE ticket like he’d never seen one before.

  “You’ve got modern clothes on,” he said, looking me over. “Have you been checked for anachronisms by the costumers?”

  “Yep,” I said. “They said I’m fine.”

  “Did they give you a waiver?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, patting my pockets, “let me see where I put it . . .”

  A line was stacking up behind me. The desk clerk was manning five doors at once, and he was losing patience. “Just cover up with one of the coats inside the door there,” he said, and waved me on. “There’s a map in the pocket, if you need one.”

  I thanked him and went to the door. The little gold plate on it read BULLOCK’S DEPARTMENT STORE, NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 8, 1937.

  I stepped through, lifted an old-looking black coat from a hook inside the door—emergency wardrobe—and pulled it on over my clothes. I walked to the back of the tiny, featureless room, and after a quick blackout and the now-familiar temporal rush, I heard the noises beyond the door change. I walked out into a department store. It looked like it had recently closed: The floor was full of empty racks and dusty, naked mannequins, and a muted glow was cast over everything from windows that had been papered with newsprint. There was a sleepy guard by the front entrance, and I could tell by his uniform, which looked a lot like the desk clerk’s, that he was one of ours. His job was to screen people entering Devil’s Acre, not bother people leaving it, so as a solo traveler with no baggage it was easy to get past him with just a self-assured nod.

  Then I was out on the street, speed-walking down Sixth Avenue on a dim winter day, past a laundry billowing steam onto the sidewalk, past mounds of black snow, past a line of shivering men in threadbare coats and a sign that read HOT MEALS ONE CENT. I reached into my coat’s pocket to find a rudimentary map. It showed the loop’s department store entrance, and a half mile ahead of me, its outer membrane, beyond which lay the present. The map was marked with an instruction to burn after reading, so I tossed it into a flaming barrel around which a group of ragged men were huddled. Starting to shiver myself, I ran.

  After a few blocks I could feel the air begin to thin and tremble around me. A short distance later, I passed through the loop membrane, out of 1937 and back into the present. The air warmed and brightened instantly, and the buildings rose to towering heights.

  I hailed a cab, gave the driver the address from the matchbook, and ten minutes later we pulled up outside a brick building wrapped in fire escapes. On the street level was a small Chinese restaurant—Hong’s. There were ducks hanging in the window and a fringed red lantern above the door. I paid the cabbie, went inside, and asked a waiter for H. He looked confused, so I showed him the matchbook, and then he nodded and took me outside.

  “Number four, around the back,” he said, pointing to an alley. “Tell him rent is coming Wednesday.”

  There was a pay phone in the alley—a strangely old-fashioned thing in modern day New York, housed in a box with a door that folded open. The phone box stood between the back entrance to Hong’s, where I could hear food frying and dishes clanking, and a door that led into a run-down apartment building lobby. I pushed it open and came into a room with mailboxes along one wall and two elevators on the other, one marked OUT OF ORDER.

  Which floor? I pressed the elevator button, and as it dinged and the door slid open, I felt it—that pr
ick in my gut when a hollow was close. The sensation could mean the hollow was in the building at that moment, or that it had come and gone so many times it had left a lasting trail. The hollow could only belong to H.

  I got into the elevator and pressed the top floor button. The door creaked shut. The car began to rise.

  As it climbed, I could feel the compass-point pain in my belly shifting—180 degrees straight up at first, then lower the higher I went. When I passed the fourteenth floor, it was nearly a level 90 degrees, so I hit the button for 15.

  The car stopped. The door opened. Right away I noticed two things that seemed very wrong. The first was a trail of blood running down the middle of the hall. When I saw it, I looked down at my feet; the trail led to the rear corner of the elevator car, and a rapidly congealing puddle.

  My chest began to pound. Someone was hurt, and hurt badly.

  The second thing was that halfway down the long hall, there was no light. None at all. It wasn’t simply dim. I couldn’t see the walls, the floor, the ceiling. And my compass was pointing directly into the dark.

  It meant Noor was here. Noor was here and something terrible had happened. I was too late.

  I sprinted down the hall, following the trail of blood into the darkness. When I could no longer see my feet hitting the floor, I slowed a little and stuck out my arms, letting the pain in my stomach be my guide. I rounded a corner, stumbled over a box someone had left in the hall. After a few more strides into the dark, the compass swung sharply left, toward an apartment door.

  It had been left open a crack, and through it I could see, finally, a sliver of light. I shouldered the door open. It was unexpectedly heavy, as if made from reinforced steel. I followed the light down a short hall, through a cramped kitchen piled up with dirty pots, into a den. A dingy warren festooned with potted plants and pervaded by a cloying-sweet smell.