by Mark Wesley
“We are,” Timothy tried to assure her. “It’s just in case. They don’t know anything and. . . .”
“Well, I’m not going back over to your house.”
“You don’t have to.”
“OK. OK,” Jane interrupted, not wanting to escalate the conversation again. “Why don’t you go make something to eat . . . I just need to rest. Promise you’ll stick around for now?”
“Definitely. You get some rest; I’ll make a sandwich.”
Timothy walked into the kitchen and quickly rummaged through the cupboard and the fridge. Back on the sofa, Jane was fast asleep within minutes.
7
The Beginning
A subtle noise startled Timothy from his peaceful sleep. As his eyes cracked opened, he found himself sitting next to Jane in a recliner with a dripping peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his lap. “Jane,” Timothy murmured, wiping his eyes as he peeled himself from the chair and looked over to his friend, who was still quite asleep.
“Hello?” he called out curiously to the empty house. The boy tuned into his senses, steadied his breathing, and gave focus to the rustling noise he heard. That’s coming from the kitchen.
The noise was not quite recognizable, resembling small crackling like the sound of fireworks. It was as if a very distant celebration were taking place. What is that?
With a glance, Timothy quickly inspected the items within arm’s reach. A small ceramic statue sat on the table beside him. He snatched up the statue, thinking it might provide some defense if such a thing were needed. Tiptoeing cautiously towards the kitchen, the boy’s nerves were on full alert.
Slowly peeking into the kitchen, the boy saw his grandfather standing beside the counter, encircled by little sparks that flickered like a faulty electrical wire.
“Granddad?” Timothy asked, stepping towards his grandfather.
“Not too close!”
“Why?”
“It’s a bit of magic. You can’t get too close or I’ll disappear,” the elderly man said with a smile.
“Oh,” Timothy responded, taking a step back. “Does it hurt?”
“I’m not actually here . . . this is just an image of me.”
“Then where are you?”
“Don’t worry . . . I’m safe, and you’re safe also.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“You know . . . I have to say, it was a bit difficult finding you.” A slim smile crept up his grandfather’s lip. “Appears you’re over at Jane’s house.”
“She’s just a good friend,” Timothy answered with a serious face. “A friend that just got put through a terrifying event.”
“I know. I heard. I am so sorry about all of that.”
“What is going on, Granddad? What is happening?”
“Have a seat and let me explain,” he answered, motioning to the kitchen table.
Timothy stepped over to the table as his grandfather floated to the opposite side.
Noting the small statue in his grandson’s hand, he asked, “What’s that for?”
“Oh, this? Protection. I didn’t know it was you,” Timothy answered, placing the item down as he pulled out a chair and took a seat. “Do you know who’s been chasing me to get this key?” Timothy asked, sliding the key out from around his neck.
“Yes. And I am so sorry that happened. You were never supposed to use it.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know what would happen . . . ”
“It’s OK,” Timothy’s grandfather interrupted, trying to bring calm to the conversation. “It was not your fault—this is all my fault.”
“I got locked in this room . . . the pirates were chasing me, and then your friend Jacob found me . . . he’s a gnome! I can’t believe you have a gnome as a friend.”
“Timothy,” his grandfather softly interrupted, slowing the boy’s random thoughts. “Calm down. Let me explain . . . there is a secret I have kept from you. Something that might be a little surprising. But . . . a secret I had to keep from you.”
“What is it?” Timothy replied as he tried to calm his nerves.
“Everything I am about to tell you, Timothy, will be hard to believe, but it’s the truth. I never meant for any of this to happen, and I have always done my best to keep you and your father safe. You must understand that.”
“Of course, Granddad. I’ll believe you.”
“So, Timothy. I am not actually from this time. I am from the past.”
“The past?”
“I am not a merchant sailor; I am actually a lieutenant, or I was a lieutenant, in the navy.”
Timothy’s eyes squinted with disbelief as he perked up in his seat as if to ask a question. “You mean you used to be, back when you were younger.”
“No. I mean I was an officer in the British navy some three hundred years in the past.”
“And, the key?” Timothy reflected with realization. “It let you come to the future?”
“Yes, that is right.” his grandfather replied, seeming a little taken aback. “I must say, you figured that out quickly and better than expected.”
“Was your name Hornigold?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“That’s what the pirates kept calling me.”
“Did they? Yes. My real name—your real name—is Hornigold, not McGee.”
“Why did you change it . . . why are you from the past . . . why are those pirates chasing me?” Timothy rambled as he became excited again.
“Timothy, settle yourself. I cannot answer all your questions right now, as I am sure you have many.”
Timothy sat back in his seat and soothed his unsteady breath. “Sorry, Granddad. I am listening; go ahead.”
“I came to this time and place to hide your father. That was back when I was much younger, back when your father was a little baby. Back then I was an officer—a proud navy man aboard a strong, fast vessel meant for patrolling our shipping lanes.”
“What happened?” Timothy asked with wonder.
“We were out . . . tracking this infamous ship. Just as we found her, the wind completely died. It was as if a spell had calmed the sea. Our boats bobbed back and forth like corks in a barrel, leaving us stranded to bake in the sun.”
“It was hot?” Timothy asked.
“Hotter than any heat I’d ever known,” the old man answered. “After the sun fell—in the dead of the night—pirates snuck aboard our ship. A deadly skirmish broke out and we defeated them each, one by one. Soon there were only a few left. A scrawny crook of a man pled for his life. He told us of a hidden wealth beyond imagination buried nearby. He said he could lead us to it. I tried to advise my captain that the man was not to be trusted, but it was clear our captain had already become consumed with greed. This wiry, wicked pirate procured an old key from a ring around his waist.”
“This key?” Timothy asked, pointing to the item about his neck.
“No. But one very similar, one that has the same power,” his grandfather answered. “He showed us to a door. ‘Black Magic,’ he explained, then he insisted I follow him. My captain ordered me through.” The color about Timothy’s grandfather faded as smaller sparks danced around his outline.
“What’s happening?” Timothy asked.
“It’s wearing off. I thought it would last longer. I must finish quickly . . . I don’t have much time left.”
Timothy looked on without interrupting.
His grandfather continued. “On the other side, I found myself captured by an old, ugly, and evil witch. It was a trick. The scrawny pirate told her what had happened and she sent a group back to our ship. I can only imagine what happened to those poor fellows.”
The color about Timothy’s grandfather dimmed even more as lighter wisps sparkled around his shape. “I haven’t the time to explain how, but I was able
to escape, steal the key, and return to my family—your father and your grandmother. That witch meant to do terrible things to me and to our family, so to keep them safe I knew I had to start a new life. I knew I had to hide. With help . . . I used the key to get to this time and this place.” He pulled out a little brown glass bottle. “I was able to keep the key hidden with this.”
“What’s that?”
“There was a magic oil in this bottle that kept the key hidden from the pirates and the witch. As long as I cleaned the key often with the oil, it could not be found with the map.”
“Jacob told me about a map.”
“Yes. The pirates have a special map that shows them the key’s location. Nevertheless, there is another way, without the oil, to keep it hidden.”
“How?”
“As long as a child wears it and does not use it, the key cannot be seen.”
“But I’m not a child, Granddad.”
“No. I guess you’re not. I just mean to say you are younger than fifteen, and that means if you wear the key it cannot be seen.”
“So that’s why you made me promise to wear it?”
“I would never have asked you to do this if there was another way. You only have to wear the key until I can find more oil.”
“How long will that be?”
“I am not sure. Soon. But, you must be careful not to fall for any traps. The witch is aware of you now and is watching very closely.”
“I didn’t mean to—I just thought. . . .”
“This is not your fault, Timothy,” his grandfather interrupted. “It is mine.”
“But how will you stop her from finding me again?” Timothy asked.
“You must be careful.”
“And what if she sends another box?”
“She can’t. And even if she could, you will be able to recognize them now.”
“How?”
“Wearing the key helps you sense magic. Just be mindful and you will know.” Several more sparks fluttered about as his appearance became transparent.
“What, Granddad,” Timothy asked as he saw his grandfather frantically look around. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I must leave.” Several more sparks flickered again, allowing the door on the other side of him to be seen. “Be a good boy and keep the key safe until I return. They must not get the key.”
“I will, Granddad.”
“And watch after your mom and dad. Know I will be home soon.”
Timothy’s grandfather looked at his grandson for a moment, then slowly vanished like a lifting fog.
“Granddad. Granddad!” Timothy said as he saw his grandfather disappear.
Mom . . . Dad.
The night was still young and Timothy realized that he had not been home for many hours. He had not checked on his parents or his house.
The boy crept softly back into the living room and saw that Jane was still fast asleep. “I’ll be back. I need to check on my parents,” he offered in a whisper as to not wake her.
Opening and closing the front door slowly in order to muffle the usual sounds, Timothy left Jane’s house and proceeded across the street to his own.
The sun had just begun to set as a golden hue hung about the evening sky. Something seemed different now. The world was a lot smaller and its busy bustling seemed less interesting. As the air blew across the boy’s face, ruffling his hair, he thought, It’s all changed.
Nothing of significance was found inside his home. His parents sat about the house in their separate corners, each mundanely engaged in their own magazine.
“Everything OK?” Timothy asked.
Swiftly looking up, the boy’s mom replied, “Have we forgotten something?”
“What? Did I forget something?” he asked, searching his thoughts.
“Our agreement,” his mother said sharply.
Overwhelmed as he was, Timothy had completely forgotten about the punishment. “Oh. I forgot,” Timothy muttered.
“You forgot?” his mother exclaimed.
“I mean. I remember—it was just that Jane needed my help,” Timothy offered, knowing it was not entirely a lie.
“Jane?” his mom asked, perking up.
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t played with her in a while.”
“Played?”
“Sorry. You haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Well, she needed my help, so I’ve been over there. I was just checking in and then going to head back over for a bit.”
“Well . . . I guess that will be fine. Just as long as you’re only next door. You are still grounded, young man,” she finished, returning to her work.
“Did you light that burn pile?” Timothy’s father interjected.
“Oh. Yeah—I went ahead and lit that.”
“OK,” his father mumbled, never looking up from his magazine.
“So, I’ll just run upstairs and then head back to Jane’s.”
“Sure thing,” his mom acknowledged.
Timothy noted how everything looked. The furniture, his parents, and even the lighting were all set about as they should be. Nothing seemed disturbed, no strange feelings hung about the air—nothing to give reason for alarm.
Everything seems normal.
Leaving his parents to their business, Timothy made his way upstairs. A slight sense of unease filled his stomach with each step climbed. The entry to his bedroom was still shut as he’d left it. Giving the door a light push, he watched as it swung open precariously on its broken frame.
Nothing, Timothy thought, gazing inside.
“Timothy, wake up. Timothy. . . .”
Timothy awoke to Jane’s tapping and calling. He discovered he had fallen asleep back on her recliner.
“We have to figure out what we’re going to do,” Jane said.
With a bit of relief, and now filled with a sense of hope instead of doom, Timothy asked, “What time is it?”
“Four.”
“In the morning?” Timothy exclaimed as he rubbed his eyes.
“Yes. And we need to figure out what to do.”
“We’re fine,” he assured Jane. “My grandfather visited me last night while you were asleep. He told me we’re safe.”
“So, he took the key?”
“Well, no. . . .”
“Why not? Isn’t he here?”
“No—he wasn’t actually here.”
“So, what do you mean? It was a dream?”
“No. He was here. Just not really here. Sort’a like a video phone call.”
“He called you?” she asked, seeking clarification.
“Sort’a. He was here in your kitchen, just not in person, only his image. It was some kind of magic.”
“And what did he tell you? How does he know we’re safe?”
“He told me a lot.”
“And I want to hear it all.”
“OK . . . so, the pirates don’t know where the key is right now. And they can’t find us . . . unless somehow I touch another box.”
“And how would that happen?”
“It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“He said wearing the key makes me sensitive to magic. And I’ll be able to know if another one comes. But, not to worry, the witch doesn’t have any more to send anyway.”
“Right. So, we should be safe?”
“Yes. You don’t need to worry about anything.”
“That’s great . . . I mean it’s not great, but it is great.”
“Yeah. And he said he’d be home really soon.”
“That’s good also,” Jane exclaimed as her shoulders relaxed and she released a deep sigh. “You know what? I stink. I need a shower.”
“Sure. Of course. You haven’t eaten anything either.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“I saw some eggs in the fridge. I could make us some.”
“That sounds good. There’s some bacon also.”
Jane took herself upstairs to have a shower and change clothes while Timothy went into the kitchen to make an early morning breakfast.
As the eggs cooked and butter crackled, a lone breeze whooshed in and up the boy’s spine.
What? Timothy questioned as he spun around to peer into the living room, thinking it was where the force had originated. Like his granddad had told him, the boy sensed he could feel something magical. Unsettled and with suspicion, as the tingle still danced about his skin, he left his task to inspect where this breeze had initiated.
Nothing, he noted as the sensation began to diminish. Unable to determine or find any magic afoot, the boy returned to the kitchen and his cooking. Must just be my overworked nerves.
Holding the pan’s handle, Timothy jiggled the sizzling eggs, adding a bit of salt, pepper, and some shredded cheese he’d located in the fridge. The aroma of sweet butter filled the room as the boy began his final touches to the dish. Another mysterious breeze rushed in, this time lifting the newspaper and napkins up and sending them all about the room.
What is that? Timothy questioned.
Several napkins struck the boy, while some clung to the windows and chairs; still others moved about, whirling like mini cyclones. Then, as quickly as it had all started, the wind abruptly stopped, sending the debris lifelessly to the floor.
I definitely feel this.
Standing tall, as if ready for a fight, Timothy waited, expecting something beastly to rush into the kitchen. An awkward tension hung strongly about, like the odor of stinky socks in a locker room. He waited there for the ambush. As the eggs began to burn, a third, even-more swift wind swept in from nowhere, carrying with it an eerie voice that called out with a moan, “Timothy.”
“Who is that?” Timothy shouted back.
“Timothy.” The voice repeated on yet another breeze. “Find the chest.”
“Who is this? Show yourself,” he demanded.
“Your grandfather,” the voice answered, this time quite clearly.
“Granddad,” the boy asked, “. . . where are you?”