Untimed: A Time Travel Adventure

by Andy Gavin

  I work on Yvaine’s laces — easier said than done, drunk — then she makes me help with the bulky cloth and wood things strapped to her hips. When we finish she’s wearing only a ratty gray shirt that comes to her knees.

  “Thanks, Nancy,” she says, taking the bundle from the lady.

  Only candles light the cramped space, but now I can see that Yvaine’s holding a baby. It opens and closes its little mouth like a guppy.

  “You hungry, Billy?” she says. “Mama’s got somethin’ for you.”

  She tugs open the drawstring of her shirt and presses the infant close.

  I’m not sure what surprises me more — that she’s a teen mother or that I just saw my first glimpse of tit.

  Yvaine, sitting cross-legged in the corner we’ve staked out, is still feeding the baby. I lean against the wall, hiccuping. At first the hiccups seemed funny, but now I’m dreading each spasm of my gut.

  The room is full of smoke. Some boys burn a bit of coal in another corner where a hole in the ceiling serves as a half-assed chimney.

  I eye the baby like it’s a chinchilla. I’ve never been this close to one before. Our family is tiny and our friends few and far between.

  And I have to pee again. The mechanics are easier this time, but the real problem is the ten other people all within five feet of me. I stare into the piss-pot, as Yvaine calls it. The sight cures my hiccups. Apparently, it’s not just a piss-pot.

  Donnie is talking to Yvaine when I return to the corner. They stand so close I can’t see between them.

  “You’re a dirty puzzle, sporting your dairy. And short to boot.”

  “I’ll do better tomorrow, Dancer.”

  He toys with his cane, the green of which stands out against his plain white underwear.

  “You saw that Ben fellow again, didn’t you?”

  Her teeth torture her lip. The other time I saw her do that was when we talked about the Tick-Tocks.

  “Of course not, I was with Charlie. Ain’t I?”

  “All day,” I say.

  Donnie’s free hand draws back and I think he’s going to hit her — she flinches — but at the last minute he moves to caress her cheek. He tucks his cane under an arm and takes the baby in both hands and swings him so high his head almost whacks into the low ceiling.

  “Me son is going to grow up a right fine lad.” He stops with the tossing and starts tickling. “Aren’t you, Billy?”

  I choke. Donnie’s the father? What about Ben Franklin?

  I realize my fists are clenched. I have to stop myself from stepping forward. Sure, Donnie’s one of those fast-talking types I never liked in school, but he hasn’t really done anything — and besides, he’s a lot taller and older than me.

  He coochie-coos the baby one more time and gives him back to Yvaine.

  “But don’t go near that prigstar again.” He grabs her hair and kisses her roughly on the mouth, then returns to the other side of the room, where Stump and a couple others play a game for money.

  I glare after him as Yvaine settles back into her corner, pushing the baby against her breast.

  “You weren’t kidding about picking the losers,” I tell her.

  Her eyes poke back at me. “There’s worse than him.”

  “If you include serial killers in the mix,” I say. “Has he hit you?”

  “He takes care of his own.” A tear wells in one of those green saucers. “Where were you last year?”

  “Let’s go,” I say. “The future is great. Women’s lib and all. Girls can have the same jobs as guys, lots of them make just as much money.”

  She scrunches her face. “Why would I want to dig ditches or shovel coal?”

  “Not by hand. We have machines for that.”

  “Machines killed me parents.”

  Yeah, I wasn’t thinking of that. “The future is safer. If you get hurt or sick they rush you to the hospital in minutes.”

  “Doctors kill you faster than a knife in the gut.”

  Too bad I didn’t script this conversation.

  “I’m just not explaining well,” I say. “We should go, trust me.”

  She shrinks back, clutching her baby. “We make of it what we will.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She shrugs. “Something me Da used to say. No one can help. I brought this on meself, now I be mired here.”

  “You said you’ve been crawling uptime. What’s stopping you?”

  She brushes at the baby’s wispy little eyebrows. “Not without Billy.”

  “Why don’t you just take him?”

  “People remember his name,” she whispers. “The only way he’s going into the future is one second at a time.”

  Eventually the candles go out and leave us in the smelly dark. My mind swirls, partly from the lingering effect of the ale and partly from the need to put things together. Obviously, Dad and Sophie are time travelers but my mom isn’t.

  I realize I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do. Did Dad plan all this? Did he want me to find him? Or is this the Time Wars and today my personal version of when the droids start leading Luke Skywalker to Obi-Wan?

  Except I didn’t even get the cryptic recording from Princess Leia.

  Yvaine lies next to me. I know she’s awake because I hear her whispering to the baby. What she said about him has me freaked out, particularly given my own situation with my mom.

  I find her ear and whisper, “You said we don’t always have to travel alone.”

  Her breath is warm against my cheek. “Not always, but we’re adrift in a river with two currents. You flow downtime an’ I flow up.”

  The barbed tendril of fear around my heart gives a little squeeze. Grime and stink aside, this has all been fun so far — and I’m smart enough to know the reason why is lying right next to me — but it’s not like I want to spend my life in the past. I miss Mom already, and she’ll be worried.

  I think of the baby and am surprised to find resentment creeping in. If he wasn’t here, Yvaine would probably just take me home. It’s hardly his fault, though. I guess the children of time travelers sometimes are and sometimes aren’t. Maybe it’s recessive, like red hair or the wrinkly peas my biology teacher goes on about.

  Will go on about. Like two hundred and eighty-five years from now.

  “Who’s the father?” I ask.

  Her lips brush against my ear. “Dinna say anythin’, not never.”

  It better be Ben. He’s way cooler.

  “Donnie loves Billy,” Yvaine continues. “Just don’t cross him an’ you be fine. He’s decent, made somethin’ of hisself, even after his parents leaved him to the parish workhouse as a babe. He does right by us, all of us.”

  My fingers graze the skin of her arm. At least I think it’s her arm.

  I’m not sure she notices since I hear soft snores from her direction. My own thoughts grow chaotic as I drift into sleep and dream of an outlandishly dressed clockwork man kissing a sandy-haired waif.

  Chapter Five:

  Training

  London, Spring, 1725

  I WAKE WITH AN ACHE IN MY HEAD and a foot in my face.

  My skull hurts even worse when I bat the leg away and pull myself to a sitting position. A shaft of light from the stairwell isn’t doing much to illuminate the dingy cellar, but that’s probably for the best. There are still four of us sharing our mattress, but I think that’s two less than last night. My nose is so stuffed I have to breathe through my mouth — again, probably for the best.

  “When I was a wee lassie,” Yvaine says from beside me, “I used t’sleep between the sow and her piglets t’keep off the chill.”

  “I’ve hardly ever had to share a room,” I say. Hint, hint.

  One of the boys on our mattress farts. I tell myself it’s just like that Cub Scout camp-out where they fed us canned beans.

  “You hungry?” Yvaine asks.

  Gross as the idea is, I am. Besides, this is my first hangover, and people on TV treat them with g
reasy breakfasts.

  Yvaine sets the baby down and stands. A cloth-wrapped packet falls out of her open shirt, spilling a bunch of dusty things on the mattress. She kneels and grabs at them.

  I pick one up and realize it’s a dried purple-topped flower, pressed flat. They’re all flowers, just different types.

  “Gimme that.” She reaches for it.

  “My mom used to cut flowers in the yard and bring them inside,” I say.

  “I telled you, I’m not your mother.”

  Someone woke up on the wrong side of the mattress.

  We pick our way over the sleeping masses. She stops near the stairs — and the piss-pot.

  “Hold Billy.”

  He’s lighter than I expect, and very warm. Yvaine hitches up her long shirt and squats over the pot. I don’t look but I can’t avoid hearing the stream.

  “I hope you really are a fast learner,” she says. “Rent’s due and we needs kick up our share.”

  Someone charges for this pigsty?

  “The dollymop’s got it right.” Donnie, back in his garish blue jacket, steps in so close his breath tickles my hair. “But firstly, empty that there pot and fetch us some proper water.”

  Another annoying trait — he’s obviously one of those people with no sense of personal space. I have to step back just to see he’s pointing to an empty wooden bucket near the chamberpot.

  There has to be a way to get out of this.

  Donny crunches my bicep in his grip, so apparently not.

  “Don’t worry, Dancer.” The redheaded contortionist, Carrot, wraps an ankle behind his neck and cracks some double joint or other. “I’ll show the new lad the well.”

  Yesterday’s rain has been replaced by a featureless gray sky. I’m glad for my wool coat, but the shoes still suck. Carrot’s a real champ, having volunteered to carry the chamberpot. As he’s in front of me, I notice he has this rubbery style of moving — like a beggar boy gummy bear.

  “Guess all that flexibility is helpful in your line of work?” I say.

  He grins. “Dancer sure thinks so.”

  We reach the crowded well and Carrot shows me how to lower the bucket. If I’m trapped here, I can invent plumbing and make a fortune.

  “Why do they call him Dancer?” I ask.

  “On account ’e studied with Mr. James Figg, the bare-knuckle fighter. ’E’s impressive fast. Mr. Figg sayed Donnie be one of ’is bestest boxers and bestest fencers.”

  Not just a trained boxer, but he knows how to use that sword he carries. Great.

  As we lug the heavy water bucket back to the lair, Carrot continues, “I sees why Mr. Figg taked a shine to Donnie. ’E stopped a vagabond crew pushin’ me li’l brother into Fleet Street Ditch, then taked us in outta the kindness of ’is own ’eart.”

  “Nice of him.” Is he talking about the same Donnie?

  “Dancer, ’e don’t never like to see the wee ones beaten upon, on account of ’is own upbringin’. In the workhouse they was fierce wont to pick on ’im.”

  If Donnie really does like kids, there might be a place here for Billy. But how am I supposed to convince a mother to abandon her baby? I’m a lowlife for even thinking it.

  At least some of the gang are cool. Carrot hasn’t stopped smiling once, which makes it pretty much impossible not to like him.

  “Which kid is your brother?”

  “None of ’em. The cannikin pox took ’old of ’im a year back and ate ’im all up so as Old Mr. Grim comed and put ’im down for a proper dirt bath.”

  Foot in mouth much? “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Ain’t no need t’apologize,” he says, “Me brother always be sickly, and touched t’boot. I miss ’im, but ’e’s better off with our mum and dad in ’eaven.”

  “I’m sorry about them, too.”

  He shrugs. “The reaper puts us all t’bed with a shovel.”

  No break in the smile, not a waver.

  Carrot, Donnie, Yvaine. All orphans. I don’t think I ever met an orphan back in Philly. Dad might not have been around much, but having some of him and all of Mom sure beat no parents at all. Which just makes me feel guilty about Mom and really miss her. We kept a board with our chores in the kitchen, hers and mine. The last couple years, I erased my name from the board, knowing she’d have to wait for Dad to put it back up.

  And the sad part was, once my name was gone, she did my chores for me.

  Back in the cellar, I reach into the long coat Yvaine hung on the wall and try for the hundredth time to retrieve the watch.

  The bell jingles again.

  “That weren’t as loud.” She’s feeding the baby — three-month-olds are always hungry, I guess. “It takes a bloody sight of practice t’master.”

  I tuck the timepiece back inside the jacket pocket and quiet the little bell she tied to the collar.

  “Do I really have to learn this?”

  “Only if you needs eat,” Yvaine says. “Pretend the coat’s a proper gentleman. Swagger an’ stride next to him, then just reach — dinna think.”

  I play her little game, hamming it up a bit, even tip my hat at the jacket while I try to steal its watch. The bell still rings, but I get a laugh from Yvaine.

  So what if I’m stuck in the past, learning to steal, lusting after a teenage mom with a thing for bad boys. Yvaine’s—

  “You’re fast, Cuz.” Donnie has a way of sneaking up on a guy. He takes the baby from Yvaine and tosses him in the air twice.

  “Charlie’s catchin’ on fast,” Yvaine says as I regain my composure.

  “’E should be ready by this evenin’.” Carrot’s been supervising from a nearby stool —upside down, since he’s in a headstand with his legs wide apart.

  Donnie hands back the baby, hops in front of me, then hops back. He twirls his lime-colored cane in one hand and presents my little leather notebook with the other. He must have snatched it, but I didn’t feel a thing.

  “Let’s see how you do against a mark that doesn’t hang on the wall.” He flips off his ridiculous wig, shrugs out of his jacket, and tucks my notebook inside his waistcoat. Then he drops into a kind of boxer’s stance, his fists held in front of him.

  “Are we fighting or am I picking your pocket?” I say.

  He takes to hopping about on the mattresses. “They don’t call me Dancer for nothing.”

  Thanks for the reminder. I’ve never fought anyone before, but I do my best to copy his posture.

  “You gents ’ave fun.” Carrot unfolds from his pretzel pose, blows Yvaine a kiss, and heads for the stairs. “Covent Garden’s unsuspectin’ proprietors await me tender ministrations.”

  Dancer gets my attention with a mock punch that passes a millimeter from my nose.

  “Donnie,” Yvaine says, “he’s just a laddie.” She holds Billy close.

  “Merely seeing what he’s made of.”

  Donnie takes another swing at my face. My heart is racing and I know I should be afraid, but I don’t want Yvaine thinking I’m a wuss. Besides, at least he’s not a murderous mechanical cop. So I twist my shoulders and avoid the blow.

  Lightning fast, his other fist strikes out and connects with my upper arm. He pulled the punch, because it doesn’t hurt that much.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I jump forward, much like I would in the middle of the triple jump. The move puts me closer and I manage to tap him on the hip.

  “Unorthodox, but interesting,” he says as he dodges away.

  The other gang members in residence gather around.

  Donnie comes at me again. I find that if I watch him closely, even fast as he is, I can avoid his blows.

  “You’re light as a grasshopper,” he says, “but you’ll just end up tiring yourself out.”

  He’s right. I’m breathing heavily and starting to slow down. Instead of jumping to the side, I twist in the air and come at him. He elbows me hard in the side, but not before I get a hand inside his coat and close it on my notebook, drawing it out as I fall onto a fl
ea-ridden mattress. I lay gasping, the wind knocked right out of me.

  Donnie grabs me by one arm and yanks me back onto my feet. I’m still fairly helpless as he puts me in a headlock and gives me an authentic eighteenth-century nuggie.

  “Not half bad, Cuz,” he says. “In a deuce of years you might give me a proper run for me money. I miss fibbing with ole Stump. That right hook of his could ding a man with just one blow.”

  The thick boy glowers at his amputated hand. “That’s why I gots me knife now.”

  When Donnie releases me, another boy presses a cup of water into my hand and I gulp it down.

  It’s not water.

  The stuff burns like hell and I choke on it, soaking the mattress. Even after I recover, the bitter perfume taste lingers.

  “’E might be quick,” Stump says, “but ’e can’t ’old ’is gin.”

  Chapter Six:

  Show Time

  London, Spring, 1725

  “WE’LL MEET UP WITH CARROT, THEN I’LL SNATCH WOMEN’S PURSES,” Yvaine says on our way to Covent Garden. “Easier than men’s pockets.”

  “Did you learn this stuff from your parents?”

  She shakes her head. “Our farm was a day’s walk from Inverness. If you stole somethin’, the clan you taked from just beat you senseless, maybe killed you.”

  “You paint a great picture.”

  But her expression is wistful.

  “T’was great, Charlie. In them times I was loved. Although even if that scaly Tick-Tock hadn’t slit me mum’s throat and put a dagger in Da’s eye, sooner or later I’d have gone by accident.”

  Way to sugarcoat it. “What do you mean?”

  She sighs. “Your da needs his arse whipped for what he didna learn you.”

  If I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to pass that along.

  “He made me study history, but he didn’t tell me why.”

  She snorts. “We girls can’t even do that — no guides for uptime.”

  “Why doesn’t someone bring back a history book?”