Time's Echo: A CHRONOS Files Novella

by Rysa Walker

  "Then you have to make them fix it, change it back. Tell your people that—"

  I laugh bitterly as I get to my feet. "They're not my people, Jess. I'm not part of this."

  He grabs my shoulders. "Still, you know them, right? If it's money they want, I don't have much, but—"

  "Jess, it's not like that. No one is holding her hostage. The people who did this don't even know Irene. They just changed something, at some point in history, and Irene—well, she just didn't happen in this timeline. If I had to guess, I'd say that Mary got married a little later or married someone different, but I don't know. Did she…um, do you know if Mary belongs to the Cyrists?"

  He drops his hands from my shoulders and opens his mouth, about to speak. And then he stops and just stares at me for a moment before crossing over to the register. He leans over and runs his hands along one of the shelves below the counter for a minute, then squats down, sticking his arm farther back. I walk over to help him up, and he shakes my hand off, pushing against the shelves with his palms to stand back up. "Damn things aren't here," he says. "I know that's where I left them."

  I start to ask what he's looking for, and then it hits me. He's looking about for his pills, but if the glow stars Kate hung on our sky are missing, Jess's medicine tin won't be there, either. The only things of Kate's that are still around are those that were designed for time travel—the diary, which has its own CHRONOS field, and the dress, which Connor rigged with tiny booster cells that amplify any nearby CHRONOS field. The razor, her phone, our stars and any other ordinary items Kate brought from her time are gone.

  Kate watched Jess struggle with his arthritis for months before she showed up with the little red pills, telling Jess they were her uncle's secret formula, something he makes at his pharmacy in New York. Although Katherine would've raised bloody hell if she'd known, Kate said the timeline wasn't going to be altered any more than it already was just because she made one old man's life a little easier with something his great-grandkids will be able to buy in any corner store.

  I know I should tell Jess that Kate is missing, too, and I open my mouth to do just that, but the words won't come out. It's almost like me saying Kate is gone will make it real. Telling Jess that Kate is missing in this timeline won't make him feel any better—he's seen more of her in the past year than he has his granddaughter. He's a shameless old flirt and his face lights up like a beacon every time Kate walks in the store.

  If I tell him about Kate, I'll break down. I'm pretty sure he will, too.

  I push myself up and sit on the edge of the counter. "I'll get you some more pills, Jess, next time I see Kate. She's—she went back down to New York to visit with her uncle this morning, so it may be a week or so."

  He shakes his head. "It's not a problem. They're around here somewhere. Amelia probably moved the box when she was cleaning. She's always moving my things around." He slumps down onto the stool behind the register, and I can see his right hand tremble a bit in his lap, before he puts the left one on top to steady it.

  Jess looks back up at me, his pale blue eyes narrowed, and finally answers the question I asked earlier. "Yeah. Mary joined the Cyrists. She's been a Cyrist for twenty some years now. But if you'd asked me that yesterd'y, I'd have told you 'no, she's a Methodist like me and Amelia.' And it would have been the God's-honest truth. Does her being a Cyrist have anything to do with Irene's disappearance, lack of existence, whatever you call it?"

  "Almost certainly. The Cyrists—"

  "There are more of them now, aren't there? More than there were before?"

  I nod. "And if you'd been under a CHRONOS field six months back when they did the first one of these shifts, you'd have a memory of Cyrists never existing at all. Think about it, Jess—starting a bogus religion is a surefire way to get people to follow you without question, assuming you can find a way to get them to believe in the first place. If you had a tool like this key, you could do some mighty impressive miracles. Prophecy is as easy as pie if you can just jump ahead to see what happens in the future."

  Jess sits there for a moment, staring at the wooden floor. "I'm not going to pretend I understand any of this. But I don't think you'd lie to me, boy, and even if you were the type, I can't imagine what you'd gain from lying about something like this. So I've really just got one question. Can this be fixed? Or should I just get my grieving over with?"

  "I wish I could answer that, Jess. I don't know. I'll try. I can promise you that much. But there's no guarantee that things'll go back the way they were, even if I can stop Saul—the guy who's behind all this. A single change made way back has these ripple effects…" My stomach rumbles again, loud enough for Jess to hear this time.

  "You can't do anything on an empty stomach. There's some biscuits left over from breakfast upstairs. Or grab something from the shelf."

  I shake my head. "I'm fine. But you need to be careful, okay Jess? You can't be talking about this to anyone. Just tell Amelia you're better, that you must have been half asleep or something." I lift the hair off my forehead and tap the bandage Amelia applied last night. "The Cyrists did this. They don't know about the spare medallion and they wanted a quick and easy way to erase my memory. Talk too much about all of this and it might attract attention. I don't want you or Amelia to be in any danger."

  "You won't get any argument from me. Amelia's worried enough as it is. She'll be calling in doctors if I say much more about Irene. I just wish there was something I could do other than sit here and wait."

  Another rumble from below, even louder. A ghost of a smile tugs Jess's mouth up on one side.

  "Okay, okay," I say, sliding off the counter. "I'll grab some cookies or something."

  I walk across the store to where Jess stocks the packaged foods and look over the half dozen brands of cookies—Uneeda Biscuits, Sugar Wafers, Zu Zu Gingersnaps. Fig Newtons sound good, so I grab a box. On second thought, they sound really good. I'm just reaching for another box when the little cow-bell over Jess's door rings, signaling a visitor.

  A husky guy in a dark suit steps over to the counter. "Two packs of Duke's Cameos, please."

  The man's back is to me, but something about him is familiar. Jess has already found the brand and is ringing him up before I realize the customer is Simon.

  I clench my fists hard, because my first instinct is to pummel him until he tells me what he knows. That may have worked when we were kids, but it's probably not the wisest move right now.

  Simon gives me a look out of the corner of his eye when I approach the counter.

  As Jess hands him his change, I reach into my pocket and pull out two dimes. "Just these two boxes of cookies, Mr. Jessup."

  Jess is about to tell me to put the money away, as he always does. But between my expression and the fact I haven't called him Mr. Jessup in ages, he just nods and sticks the money in the register.

  "Tell Mrs. Jessup I'm sorry I missed her. I'll stop back by in a day or two. You take care, okay?"

  "You do the same," Jess says, as I follow Simon out the door.

  ∞

  "Hubba hubba, look at the gams on this sexy mama." Simon leans against the side of the building, staring at the card he's just pulled from one of the cigarette packs.

  No one says hubba hubba in 1905, or gams. Or sexy mama, for that matter. Simon prides himself on being a walking anachronism.

  "Why are you here, Simon? And since when do you smoke cigarettes?" He'll puff the occasional cigar when he wants to act like a big shot, but smoking is one of the few vices Simon actually avoids.

  He drops the pack of cigarettes to the sidewalk and crushes it under his heel. "I don't. I just buy these for the old-timey porn." He holds up the card so that I can see a woman, who could easily make two of the skinny actresses from Kate's time, clad in tights and a leotard.

  He smacks his lips. "Now that's a woman you could really sink your teeth into."

  I don't think Simon actually bites the women who are desperate enough to have sex wi
th him, but I couldn't guarantee it. Not something I want to think about, either way.

  "And I could ask what you're doing here, Kierney, since Prudence said you were too injured to be out and about." He nods at bandage on my head. "Looks like someone whacked you good."

  "Looks like," I reply amiably, while imagining how his head would snap back if I punched him in the jaw. "No food at my place and I was hungry. Jessup usually has a few sandwiches that his missus makes up for sale, but she's still at the market. So I'm stuck with these."

  I wedge one of the boxes of Newtons under my arm and open the other one, then start walking down the street toward my place while I eat the cookies. Simon follows.

  "You walked over half a mile to get cookies? Yeah, well gimme." He tries to pull the other box out from under my arm. "You don't need two boxes."

  "You sure as hell don't need them. Back off. I said I was hungry."

  He grabs two cookies from the package that's already open and shoves them into his mouth. "These things are gross."

  Of course, being Simon, he's talking with his mouth full, and I hear Kate's voice in the back of my mind saying Pot. Kettle. Black. That brings a tiny smile, which is quickly wiped away by the memory of last night and the fact that the asshole who just swiped my cookies probably had something to do with it.

  "You don't like my cookies, don't eat them."

  "So, you're walking all the way back to your apartment?"

  I nod. "Someone stole most of my money last night along with my CHRONOS key. I'm not gonna catch a cab for less than a mile."

  "Oh, right. That's one reason Pru sent me." He pulls a medallion out of his pocket. "I'm supposed to give you this and tell you to get to Farm nineteen hundr—"

  "Yeah, yeah." I take the medallion and pull the chain over my head. The grease smudge is still on the key. "Pru already told me the coordinates."

  He grabs another handful of cookies. "Well, anyway, she's expecting you at the Farm, ASAP. Just thought I'd let you know. She says your memory got a bit wiped?"

  "Yeah. A bit. I thought she was sending June to patch up my head."

  "She didn't mention it," he says.

  "Fine. Whatever. Tell her it will be at least tomorrow, Si."

  "She's gonna be pissed."

  "There's no way I can use the key to travel before then. My head is killing me. And what difference does it make to her when I go? I'll be there at the same bloody time whether I leave Boston 1905 today, tomorrow or next year."

  "True, but this is Prudence. Just like her daddy, if she says jump, you're supposed to jump right that second. You haven't forgotten that much I hope."

  I crumple up the empty cookie box and stuff it in my pocket, then open the second carton. "No, I haven't forgotten that. I just don't understand why she didn't leave me the key last night. She's acting weird."

  "Who knows? She's crazy as a damn bedbug, especially if you end up talking to her after age thirty. Sister Prudence had half a brain, but I make it a habit never to question Mother Prudence."

  "I hope you don't let her hear you call her that," I say.

  "God, no."

  "She said you apologized, by the way, and that I accepted. I don't remember any of that, so maybe you could run it by me again."

  "Apologized? Doesn't sound like me."

  "Yeah, that's what I told her. I'm guessing it was for Cincinnati. I don't remember much of what happened, except you almost getting me killed."

  Nearly got Kate killed, too, but I don't say that.

  "Never happened," he says, shaking his head. "That whack on the head has rattled your noggin."

  I stop by the little market a few blocks from the apartment and grab a bottle of milk, a hunk of cheddar and a loaf of bread, hoping Simon will be gone when I come out. He's still there, with some sort of phone, scrolling across a display. And he's not even trying to be discreet about it. "Hey, wanna catch a Red Sox game? I was just checking the schedule I saved—there's a double-header today I haven't seen yet."

  Simon has been on a baseball kick for the past year or so. It's one of the only things we have in common, but I'm not in the mood to sit in the sun for three hours, and that goes double for sitting that long with Simon. I open the bottle of milk and take a long chug before answering. "They're not the Sox yet. The Boston Americans are on the road the next two weeks—either Philly or Chicago today, can't remember."

  He shrugs. "So?"

  I don't say anything, just tap the bandage again. "I can't travel. Remember?"

  "Fine. The Braves are in town, right? They suck beyond measure, but since you're crippled..."

  I start to correct him—Boston's other baseball team, the Beaneaters, won't be the Braves for five more years. They'll go through two or three other really stupid team names before then. But why bother?

  "Go if you want, Simon. Me? I'm headed back to bed to sleep this off. So if you're done playing errand boy you can trot back to Pru and tell her I'll be along as soon as I can."

  He bristles at that, pulling his medallion out of his watch pocket. "I'm not her errand boy. I've got other work to do. I delivered that message as a favor."

  I'm not sure if he meant as a favor to me or as a favor to Pru, but I'm not sad to see him disappear. I just wish he'd avoid doing it in the middle of the sidewalk in broad daylight.

  ∞6∞

  Estero, Florida

  May 30, 2030– 6:45p.m.

  Most of us still call Nuevo Reino the "Farm," but it isn't a working farm these days. What remains is more for show than anything else. The Farm that I remember had four or five dozen cows, a pigpen near the barn, along with chickens and pretty much every other form of livestock. Snakes and alligators wandered around too, so you had to be careful walking about at night.

  Only the horses remain now—not the same horses, of course, but Pru has insisted on keeping a few in the barn since she took over after Cyrus Teed's death a hundred and twenty-odd years ago. While it's possible that Prudence rides these horses, too, I doubt it. The tack hanging on the wall looks brand new and the only horse I've ever seen her ride is the palomino stallion she bought the year I arrived at the farm. Pru named the horse Wildfire, something Kate found hysterically funny when I told her. She promised she'd find the song and play it for me, but we never got around to it.

  Pru rode that horse almost every day she was at Nuevo Reino. And occasionally, Older Pru would use her CHRONOS key to come back to the Farm and take him out for a run as well. Younger Pru would always brush him down and feed him herself. Older Pru left him saddled and tied by the barn door. She didn't speak to anyone on those visits—just showed up, rode the horse, and jumped back to whenever she'd come from.

  I was there one afternoon when she popped in out of the blue and snatched the reins away from her seventeen-year-old self. Her seventeen-year-old self and I found something else to do, up in the loft. Thinking back, that might have been Older Pru's plan all along.

  There are just a few wisps of cloud in the early evening sky when I arrive, but the grass is damp, probably from one of those afternoon thunderstorms I remember sweeping across the Farm when I was a kid—storms that disappeared so quickly you could almost believe you'd imagined them.

  Instead of following the path to Founder's House, where Prudence, Saul, and the others are gathering, I hang a right and head down to the river. The only things that I still like about the Farm are the gardens and the trail that winds along the river, because those are the only places that are the same as when I lived here. When you're near the river, you can forget that over a century of change has happened, unless a plane or a delivery drone happens to fly over.

  I pass Bamboo Landing and walk a little further down the path, finally stopping at a spot overlooking the water. The mimosa tree that used to be here is gone now and the boat tied to the landing today is a lot smaller than the one that I used to ferry along the river, carting visitors in from Ft. Myers to hear the weekly concerts. Although the Koreshans were the ones who star
ted the whole concert thing, Prudence decided it was good public relations, so I was on the river by ten o'clock most Sunday mornings. It was one of the chores I never minded, especially after the Machine Shop rigged up an outboard motor so that I could do it without Simon or one of the others tagging along to help row.

  I ferried two celebrities on that boat—Thomas Edison and Henry Ford. But the trip that is burned into my memory took place on April 3, 1902. It was hotter than usual that week and so humid that my shirt was stuck to my body before I'd even buttoned it up. Once the boat got going, however, it could hit five miles per hour and I'd catch a nice breeze.

  On that particular morning, there were maybe a dozen people waiting at the dock, all in their Sunday best. The first to step into the boat was a middle-aged man clutching a cornet case to his chest. Driggers never missed a Sunday. He was so shy that he'd get this scared rabbit look if you spoke to him, but once he slid into place with the small Koreshan orchestra, he was a different man, his face all lit up like a lantern.

  Directly behind him was Kate.

  I knew it was her long before I took her hand to help her step into the boat. Long before I saw the bracelet with the jade and pearl hourglass charm—the bracelet I'd yanked from her arm as she lay in the middle of the Midway Plaisance, hoping it would convince her grandmother to rescue her.

  It wasn't just that Kate looks like so much like Pru, except for those green eyes. It wasn't just her smile or the way she wrinkled her nose when she accidentally dragged her skirts through the water at the edge of the pier. It was—everything. It was Kate.

  She must've thought I was simple, or else insane, but it took every bit of restraint I had to keep my reaction down to that silly grin. I felt like lifting her off the pier and spinning her around—ill-advised when you're in a boat. Finally knowing, after all this time, that she made it out, that she didn't die in that awful place, that I hadn't imagined the entire day, lifted this huge weight I didn't even realize I'd been carrying. And while it stung at first that Kate didn't recognize me, that wasn't a realistic expectation when I was all of eight years old and maybe half my current height and weight the last time she saw me.