Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  At my side, Mendoza turned away her face in disgust. But I was watching the old couple, who stood a little way back from the rest of the family. They clung to each other in mute terror and had no eyes for the smiling Virgin. It was the bottom of the ever-deepening hole they watched, as birds watch a snake.

  And I watched them. Old Diego was bent and toothless now, but sixty years ago he’d had teeth, all right; sixty years ago his race hadn’t yet learned never to fight back against its conquerors. Maria Conception, what had she been sixty years ago when those vines were planted? Not a dried-up shuffling old thing back then. She might have been a beauty, and maybe a careless beauty.

  The old bones and the rusting steel could have told you, sixty years ago. Had he been a handsome young captain with smooth ways, or just a soldier who took what he wanted? Whatever he’d been, or done, he’d wound up buried under that vine, and only Diego and Maria knew he was there. All those years, through the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he’d been there. Diego never coming to Mass because of a sin he couldn’t confess. Maria never missing Mass, praying for someone.

  Maybe that was the way it had happened. Nobody would ever tell the story, I was fairly sure. But it was clear that Diego and Maria, alone of all those watching, did not expect to see treasure come out of that hole in the ground.

  So when the first glint of gold appeared, and then the chalice and altar plate were brought up, their old faces were a study in confusion.

  “The treasure!” cried Salvador. “Look!”

  And the rancheros spurred their horses through the crowd to get a better look, lashing the Indians out of the way; but I touched the remote hidden in my sleeve and the Blessed Virgin spoke, in a voice as sweet and immortal as a synthesizer:

  “This, my beloved children, is the altar plate that was lost from the Church at San Carlos Borromeo, long ago in the time of the pirates. My beloved Son has caused it to be found here as a sign to you all that ALL SINS ARE FORGIVEN!”

  I touched the remote again and the Holy Apparition winked out like a soap bubble, and the beautiful music fell silent.

  Old Diego pushed his way forward to the hole and looked in. There was nothing else there in the hole now, nothing at all. Maria came timidly to his side and she looked in too. They remained there staring a long time, unnoticed by the mass of the crowd, who were watching the dispute that had already erupted over the gold.

  The bishop had pounced on it like a duck on a June bug, as they say, asserting the right of Holy Mother Church to her lost property. Emidio and Salvador had let it be snatched from them with hard patient smiles. One of the Gentes de Razon actually got off his horse to tell the bishop that the true provenance of the items had to be decided by the authorities in Mexico City, and until they could be contacted the treasure had better be kept under lock and key at the alcalde’s house. Blessed Virgin? Yes, there had seemed to be an apparition of some kind; but then again, perhaps it had been a trick of the light.

  The argument moved away down the hill—the bishop had a good grip on the gold and kept walking with it, so almost everyone had to follow him. I went to stand beside Diego and Maria, in the ruins of their garden.

  “She forgave us,” whispered Diego.

  “A great weight of sin has been lifted from you today, my children,” I told them. “Rejoice, for Christ loves you both. Come to the church with me now and I will celebrate a special Mass in your honor.”

  I led them away with me, one on either arm. Unseen behind us, Mendoza advanced on the uprooted and forgotten vine with a face like a lioness kept from her prey.

  Well, the old couple made out all right, anyway. I saw to it that they got new grapevines and food from the Mission supplies to tide the family over until their garden recovered. Within a couple of years they passed away, one after the other, and were buried reasonably near one another in the consecrated ground of the Mission cemetery, in which respect they were luckier than the unknown captain from Castile, or wherever he’d come from.

  They never got the golden treasure, but being Indians there had never been any question that they would. Their descendants lived on and multiplied in the area, doing particularly well after the coming of the Yankees, who (to the mortification of the Gentes de Razon) couldn’t tell an Indian from a Spanish Mexican and lumped them all together under the common designation of Greaser, treating one no worse than the other.

  Actually I never kept track of what happened to the gold. The title dispute dragged on for years, I think, with the friars swearing there had been a miracle and the rancheros swearing there hadn’t been. The gold may have been returned to Carmel, or it may have gone to Mexico City, or it may have gone into a trunk underneath the alcalde’s bed, I didn’t care; it was all faked Company-issue reproductions anyway. The bishop died and the Yankees came and were the new conquerors, and maybe nothing ever did get resolved either way.

  But Mendoza got her damned vine and her bonus, so she was as happy as she ever is. The Company got its patent on Black Elysium secured. I lived on at the Mission for years and years before (apparently) dying of venerable old age and (apparently) being buried in the same cemetery as Diego and Maria. God forgave us all, I guess, and I moved on to less pleasant work.

  Sometimes, when I’m in that part of the world, I stop in as a tourist and check out my grave. It’s the nicest of the many I’ve had, except maybe for that crypt in Hollywood. Well, well; life goes on.

  Mine does anyway.

  NUMBER 73 GLAD AVENUE

  Suzanne J. Willis

  “What time does the clock have, Charlie?” Mary looked left, dark, bobbed hair brushing her shoulders. She heard him mutter then carefully shut the doors, locking the timepieces away, before walking around to face her, his little tin feet clicking softly against the wooden floor.

  “Twelve May 1923. Six p.m.”

  She looked down at Charlie as he packed the powders and glass vials, which were no bigger than her thumbnail, into the black leather doctor’s bag, before climbing in and settling into the spare space at the side. At twelve inches tall, he just fit inside, with a whisker of room between his head and the bag’s brass clasps. “Comfortable?” she asked.

  “I’ll be better when we’ve arrived. Let’s get going.” He clapped his hands together then waved as she shut him in.

  Mary walked down the street. Silver waves of time flowed around her in a shimmering cascade as the buildings, the path, the people disappeared or grew or shrank into their new lines as required. Each step carried her quite gradually from 1852 to 1923, the bag clenched firmly in her hand, and she gave a little shiver. It’s so different, she thought. All the beautiful clean lines, the geometric shapes of the buildings fronted with sunbursts and arching curves: the simple luxury of it all. Visiting the twenties—whether from the past or the misty future—never ceased to amaze her. There was something so fresh and almost, well, bouncy about it. It was an era in which Mary felt revived, which was no easy feat given that she and Charlie were constantly scissoring back and forth between the decades, centuries, epochs.

  It had been so long now, Mary had quite forgotten how their journey back and forth through time was supposed to end. She shook that thought away; better to let these things work themselves out.

  The air stilled and she looked around. Horse-drawn carriages had given way to automobiles, sleek and chrome, slinking down the road. A shiny brick-red model passed by, the jaguar in mid-leap on the hood shining under the late afternoon sun. The driver whistled at Mary and tipped his hat as she smiled back.

  “What is that infernal racket?” came Charlie’s muffled voice from inside the bag.

  Mary listened for a moment. There it was—the unmistakable sound of jaunty pianos and sexy, snaking trumpets. She realized she was tapping her foot.

  “It’s jazz, Charlie, you old stick-in-the-mud. And I quite like it.”

  He mumbled a reply.

  “It’s strange, though. Today doesn’t feel terribly important.
There’s usually someth—”

  “Number 73 Glad Avenue,” was the exasperated response from the bag.

  “Right you are, Charlie.”

  Number 73 was set on a huge expanse of land fronting the river. Geraldine, their employer for the evening, led Mary into the front room that overlooked the lawn rolling down to the river bank, a dark emerald in the dying light.

  “And here’s the bar.” Geraldine pointed to the buffet unit in the corner. “Walnut, with marble top, if I’m not mistaken? And chrome trim.”

  Geraldine nodded. “We had it shipped all the way from New York, you know. There’s not another one like it in the world.”

  “It’s beautiful. And quite perfect for what we have in mind. I hope I don’t seem immodest, but you couldn’t have chosen a better hostess. You and your guests are in for a treat,” Mary smiled. “I do so love a good party, Geraldine.”

  “You don’t appear to have brought much with you, dear,” Geraldine pointed at the black bag.

  “There’s not a lot I need, as you’ll see.” Mary opened the clasps and brought out a miniature replica of the walnut and marble unit, placing it in the center of the real one.

  Geraldine looked shocked. “But how could you know?”

  “Ah, now, a magician never reveals her secrets.” With that, she pulled Charlie from the bag and stood him up behind the little bar, where he looked for all the world like a china doll with twinkling blue-glass eyes and impressively thick moustache. Mary smoothed his ginger hair.

  “He’s just adorable,” Geraldine said.

  “And quite the star of the show, as you’ll see. I’m fine to see to things here, if you’d like to get ready for your guests. Of course, we do require payment up front . . .”

  “Oh, naturally, yes.” Geraldine rummaged through the drawers of a dark bureau on the other side of the room. For the sake of discretion, Mary turned and walked over to the tall, arched windows. She looked at the long wooden jetty. A woman sat at the end, silhouetted against the sunset-flamed river, her toes skimming the water.

  “Beautiful at this time of day, isn’t it?”

  Mary smiled. “It’s like something out of The Great Gats—” she stopped herself. That’s not until 1925!

  “From what, dear?”

  “Oh, nothing. Who is that sitting on the end of the jetty?”

  “That’s my older sister, Freya. She’s a funny thing, keeps quite to herself and . . . but I’m rattling on, here you go.” Geraldine held out a gold pocket watch; it swung gently on the end of its chain and caught the last rays of the sun. “It hasn’t worked for years, but it does pain me to part with it. It was my grandfather’s. Still, you come so highly recommended.” She paused, glancing at Mary suspiciously. “If you don’t mind my saying so, it does seem like an odd price . . .”

  With a beatific smile, Mary reached out for the watch. As metal and flesh came into contact, the watch shivered, its gold sparking in the gathering dark. She shifted it in her hands: it warmed to her touch. Click. The cover sprang back to reveal the ornate hands slowly journeying around its pale face. The second hand was missing.

  “Well, now, look at that. It seems to be working after all. Even has the right time.” She waved her free hand at Geraldine, dismissing her confusion. “Which means you must go and get ready.”

  Once Geraldine was gone Charlie stretched and yawned on the bar, blinking his glassy eyes. He jumped into the bag, rummaged about then jumped out again with several vials. He began to mix the powders and fluids together in a bell-shaped bottle, humming softly to himself.

  The jetty drew Mary’s gaze again. Freya was walking along it towards the shore, leaving a trail of silvered footprints shining like old stars.

  Mary smiled at the women—flappers, she remembered—in their feathered headpieces and beaded frocks; at the men in their razor-sharp suits as they lit cigarettes in long holders for their paramours. Her own close-fitted dress was black, long-sleeved, innocuous; the only feature was a row of silver buttons down her back. But the colors the flappers wore! And the fabrics! The delicate, diaphanous skirts; the trailing ribbons from dropped waists; the long strings of jewels, darlings, the jewels.

  The parquetry floor shook and the chandeliers tinkled as the guests shook and shimmied and stomped to the jazz band, its piano, trumpet, and Sharkey Malone’s whiskey-voice jumping across the night. No one looked lonesome in a corner, or was without one of Charlie’s fabulous gin martinis or old-fashioneds. Everything was going to plan.

  “I would honestly love to know how that little barman doll works. He seems so like-life . . . lifely . . . um, real.” Geraldine had crept up behind Mary and slung an arm around her shoulder. Her voice was a little slurred and her headpiece of peacock feathers and jet sat askew.

  “He’s always a hit. But now, I think, would be a good time for the main event, seeing as the band’s about to break.” She signaled to Sharkey Malone, who pulled a worn little hipflask from his pocket and toasted in reply. “If you’ll just get everyone to—”

  “Darlings. My lovely katty-kits. No, wait—my kitty cats . . .” Geraldine giggled and swayed as all eyes turned towards her. She waved a hand at Mary, who felt a little thrill run through her. This was what she had been waiting for.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d like to form an orderly line in front of the bar, we have a rather special treat for the evening, courtesy of the lovely Geraldine,” Mary smiled winningly.

  The crowd cheered as she walked to the bar and stood beside Charlie. Tiny ruby glasses, about twice the size of a thimble, were stacked on the right of his little bar. On the left were the bell-shaped bottle and two chrome cocktail shakers. The booze, she knew, would be on the shelf underneath.

  “You really are an old pro, aren’t you, Charlie?” Mary whispered to him.

  He replied with a wink.

  “Whiskey or gin?” asked Mary of the first guest, a plump woman with a fur-trimmed neckline and tight rings that made her fingers look like sausages.

  “Whiskey, thanks, honey.”

  At this stage of the evening Charlie could relax a little. People were drunk enough not to notice that his movements were fluid, less like a spring-powered automaton. It was exhausting to keep that act up all night, she knew. He deserved to have a little fun with his favorite part of the night.

  He poured the whiskey into the shaker, over crushed ice, followed by a shot of something shimmering that looked like liquid violets.

  “Hang on a minute, honey. That’s not anything that’s stronger than booze now, is it? If you get my drift.” The plump woman looked concerned.

  “Madam, I assure you we serve nothing dangerous.”

  “Now who’s the old pro?” whispered Charlie under his moustache. The shaker frosted over as he gave it a quick, expert shake. He lifted it high in the air, straining the beverage into one of the ruby glasses. A fine mist wafted from the liquid as it waterfalled into it; the sound of children’s laughter splashed up from the drink.

  “Now isn’t that just the strangest thing?” The woman’s pink-painted lips curved into a smile, her chubby cheeks shining. She held the glass up to the light; crimson sparkles shone on the wall behind it.

  Mary smiled back. “Now if you’d like to make your way to the lawn?”

  The plump woman stood aside for a man in a brown fedora.

  “Whiskey or gin?”

  They streamed to the bar, full of laughter and disinhibition. Mary watched Charlie pass another tiny glass of violet liquid to a smiling, swaying man, reveling in their abandonment.

  Geraldine waved at Mary as the last guest wandered outside. “Bottoms up, darlings!” she cried, downing the drink in one mouthful as Mary switched off the lights.

  Charlie wiped out the cocktail shakers as he looked out the window. “Admiring your handiwork?” Mary asked.

  “It never gets dull, does it? I mean, I never quite know how they’re going to react . . .”

  “Look,” she whispered. The crescen
t moon was slung low on the horizon, refusing to illuminate the garden with more than a wan glow. Geraldine laughed, a raucous guffaw from her belly. As it rang out, the laughter vapourized into yellow light, like boiling water into steam. It broke off into tiny pieces that flew up into amber lanterns that Mary had earlier strung through the trees, around the ironwork fencing, along the edges of the lawn. Luminous, the lanterns lit the party with the light of a worn-through sunset. Silhouettes of the ants and insect wings forever frozen in the amber filled the grounds.

  “Beautiful as ever,” Charlie sighed. “It does seem sad, though, that they don’t ever remember it.”

  “Perhaps. But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t change them, that they don’t carry it with them.” Laughing softly, she pointed toward the plump woman who had taken the first drink. All her flapper frippery had fallen off, discarded on the damp grass. She stretched, her body elongating, the soft white flesh stretching and curving around the changing bones. An unseen vessel tipped over her head, spilling shining liquid until she was coated head to foot in chrome. Naked, unadorned, she arched her back in an imitation of the Diana lamps and ashtrays of the day.

  “Amazing, isn’t it, what people can do when you take back just a little time from them?” Mary never grew tired of the endless shapes, the form and formlessness that rested under the layers of time that humans wore like a shell. She wondered what would happen if it was age, the strangely complicated effect of time, that was stripped away. But the drink took back time itself, bringing out all the possibilities that the years steal away.

  “So that’s how you do it, then.”

  Mary jumped. The arrival of the owner of that low, sweet voice meant that they had a problem on their hands.

  Charlie froze, the tiny white towel swaying in his hand.

  Freya, in cloche hat and almond-colored wrapover coat, walked from the shadows, smiling. She looked like she was holding a secret inside her, beating like a second heart. Mary reached up to smooth down her hair, something she only did when she was unsettled.