Jump City: Apprentice

by MK Alexander

  “Well, I will say Fynn has brought us a wonderful specimen this time. He looks to be of fine stock…”

  “For a change, I completely agree, dear sister,” the brigadier said and gave me a broad smile, somewhat less coy than his sister’s.

  “Dark hair, blue eyes, a strong, youthful body… and what an engaging smile. Dear boy, I am in love.”

  I paused uncomfortably. “I can tell by your accents that neither of you are from these parts.”

  “Heavens no. We are immigrants here, but emigres from our native land.” The brigadier gave off a long laugh. He amused himself at least.

  “My brother and I travel on a British passport,” Madame Madeline clarified.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Some sort of schooner, I think it was. A dreadful trip. Sea sick the whole way.”

  “You mean the one we had to abandon— the shipwreck?” Madeline asked.

  “No, no, that was a different journey entirely, my dear.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “When, you say? I can hardly recall… early eighteen hundreds, I should think.”

  “Well, enough of this banter… I do believe I promised you something to eat and drink. I’d hate for you to think I’m a bad hostess,” Madeline interrupted and rang a small bell she had taken from the table. “What would you care for, Mr Patrick?”

  “Oh, thanks, I’m good.”

  “Nonsense… I could offer you a sandwich or a drink.”

  “Well…”

  “A lager? We have a few bottles left in the ice box. I’d be happy to join you.” The brigadier perked up a bit. “And when is supper exactly, Maddy dear?”

  “I thought we’d wait for Tractus… though, there’s no reason not to begin the cocktail hour.”

  A rotund Asian woman appeared from one of the small doors that interrupted the far wall. She bowed silently.

  “Ah, Cook… there you are. This is our new guest, Mr Patrick.”

  I greeted the woman and she smiled embarrassedly, but it was a beautiful wide smile. She didn’t say a word though.

  “Don’t you have a name?” I asked, but Madeline replied instead:

  “Ha, nothing anyone can pronounce properly… Leung Xun Qi Cuhk… She’s just Cook for short. Doesn’t speak a word of English, though she seems to understand everything I tell her,” Madeline said and turned to the woman. “A cold lager from the ice box for our guest and one for my brother as well, please. I think I’ll have a burgundy to start…” Madeline paused to wait for another bow but the woman only nodded. “Actually, only Ming understands her particular dialect,” Madeline said softly.

  “Ming?” I asked.

  “Cook’s husband, Sonny Ming.” Madeline smiled. “He’s around somewhere, I’m sure…” She paused again and then called out loudly, “Ming?”

  A man appeared through the same door and stood next to Cook. He was her opposite, tall and spindly as if he could cave in at any moment. Nor did it seem Ming had the ability to smile. He shook my hand limply.

  “How many languages do you speak, Sonny?” Madeline asked for my benefit.

  “Sixty-three.”

  “Don’t be too impressed, half of them are obscure dialects no one else seems to know… still he’s invaluable as our man Friday— aren’t you, Ming?”

  “Yes, Madame Madeline.”

  “We’re expecting Detective Fynn at any moment. Perhaps you might lend some assistance.”

  “Of course.”

  “And could you have Cook set supper out for all the guests by nine? The usual thing, in the dining room. I suppose you could bring us hors d’oeuvres any time it’s convenient… just here in the salon. Thank you, dear.”

  They both nodded politely and withdrew.

  “You mentioned other guests. Who else is here?” I asked.

  “Oh… let me think… At present we are entertaining Carlos, Raj, the Sheik, Edmund… the dear old professor… Zalika, Myra Hatchet, and of course, the children…”

  “Sounds like a full house.”

  “They’ll all be down for dinner, I’ll introduce you then.”

  ***

  I was sipping my first beer, staring at the fire and wondering where Fynn was, when seemingly out of nowhere, a dark figure appeared on the grand staircase. He bounded up the steps into the main salon and gave us all a furtive glance. The man wore a broad-brimmed western hat and a high-collared jacket. He also carried a small backpack that seemed to be stuffed with books. Madeline and her brother either didn’t notice, nor seem to care. And while I couldn’t quite see his face, just his eyes that flashed white when he glanced around the room, I did take note of his beard. There was something unnervingly familiar about him. I thought of Kaiser Wayne.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Madeline called out but declined to leave her seat.

  The man held up a paddle-like object and a square of blue paper in reply, then muttered a barely audible, “Thank you kindly, ma’am.” He put the paddle into a basket and strode over to the fireplace. His back was turned to us and he seemed to be warming himself. After just a few moments, he walked out the main entrance and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. His voice though, that’s what triggered a memory, too vague to pin down exactly.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  “The guy who just left.”

  “No. He’s not at all familiar to me.” The brigadier turned to his sister. “Do you know the fellow, Maddy?”

  “Can’t say that I do. Maybe he’s the man from Texas.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “Well, let me think… He was down in the stacks for…” She peered across the room to the stained-glass windows, or perhaps at the odd calendar and clocks, “Several days, I dare say.”

  “Damn foreigners,” her brother commented.

  * * *

  chapter twenty-eight

  over due

  It seemed like a very long time had passed since I left Fynn outside the front door with the luggage, too long. Surely, hours had passed. I was growing increasingly frustrated and impatient, and also tired of fending off Madam Madeline’s obvious advances. What could be keeping him? Anytime I broached the subject with my new hosts, they merely laughed and offered vague assurances that he’d turn up at any moment.

  Having downed a second icy lager and cleared a plate of slippery dumplings, I began to feel restless and asked Madeline if there was anything current to read. That, I suppose, was not a good question.

  “We do not have newspapers here at the library. No current events, sorry. Only books.”

  “What sort of books?” I asked.

  “Biographies, well… there are autobiographies as well,” she replied.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s quite enough. Of course, you may find the odd book about history, science, art, that sort of thing.”

  “Fiction?”

  “Heavens no. It’s not a lending library, Mr Jardel.” She smiled, though only politely. “Now that you mention it, a good many of our biographies do fall in the realm of fiction— and certainly all the autobiographies.” Madeline took my hand and laughed. “What sort of thing do you have in mind, Patrick?”

  “Anything about nineteen thirty-three.”

  “Thirty-three? she asked. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Jardel. There’d be nothing for that year except a few strays. I haven’t even finished cataloging nineteen thirty-two.” Madeline escorted me by the arm towards the main index room. At the top of the stairs a large brass sign posted the Rules of the Library:

  No talking, no spitting, no smoking

  Books may not leave their alcove

  Do not stop in the hallways

  Check your library pass frequently

  “Generally, books are written at least a year before they are published,” Madeline continued. “You won’t find much about nineteen thirty-three yet.”

  “I
was hoping for any recent history, politics, maybe something about former President Hoover.”

  “Hoover, you say? I may have something, though it would be rather a new book. I’m not sure it’s been indexed yet.” Madeline pushed through the saloon-door at the reception desk into the main catalog room.

  “Do you have any books about Cactus Jack?”

  “Who?”

  “The President, John Nance Garner.”

  “Can’t say it rings any bells. Though you might check the card catalogue, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that pile over there?” I asked and pointed to a small tower of books laying on the floor.

  “The strays of course. Books that have not been written yet. Well, written perhaps, but not filed.”

  “You mean they come from the future?”

  “That’s an odd way to put it, but yes, I suppose one could say that.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “Do with them?” She seemed puzzled by my question. “Such things are catalogued, when and if the time comes.”

  “May I take a quick look?”

  “Be my guest, please… though I can’t vouch for where they come from. People show up from all over and whenever just to donate them,” Madeline explained as she brushed against me.

  “What about this pile,” I asked, motioning to a row of fallen books on an otherwise empty shelf.

  “All the books that have been indexed but not yet delivered into the stacks.”

  “The morgue?” I asked.

  “I don’t like that word at all, Mr Jardel.”

  “Oh, sorry, it’s a newspaper term… for archives.”

  “I see.”

  I found another shelf marked 1932 though it was completely bare. “Hmm… all your books for nineteen thirty-two seem to be missing. Is that unusual?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re missing a whole year.”

  “No, not really…things go missing all the time, or they’re never here, or they’re not here yet.”

  “That’s no way to run a library.”

  “You’re telling me, dear boy.”

  I thought I might have better luck with the card catalog. As I began my search, I was happy enough to find the index system seemed to comply with every other library I had ever visited; though, I have to admit it had been some time since I last exercised this particular skill set. Each book was identified by Author, Title, Subject, Category and Date, yet I could find nothing about the topics important to me. To satisfy my own curiosity I decided to see who invented the telephone. I started with subject: Telephone, 1876, Author: Gray, Elisha. Inventor. Talking Through Wires. Also see: Alexander Graham Bell. I then looked up Bell: Telephone, 1876, Technological Devices, Inventors. The Telegraphic Voice. Also see: Elisha Gray. This was not helpful at all.

  Instead, I started sifting through the pile on the floor and came across a volume titled, The War Years, A Personal Journey by Ambrose Bierce. It was an alarming history about the fascist take-over of the United States and a version of World War Two that no one would enjoy except Joseph Goebbels. I looked for a publication date but could find none.

  “What do you know about this book?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I’ve read it,” Madeline replied. “Why, does it seem interesting?”

  “It’s a little distressing.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t mean to be nosy, but can you tell us why?” Madeline put her hand around my waist to comfort me.

  “It’s about a future that shouldn’t come to pass.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in it, darling Patrick. Outside these walls, time shifts like the wind… who can say which timeline will prevail?”

  “That’s very poetic, but what does it mean?”

  “It means these un-filed books don’t necessarily represent what will occur. People bring me things from all over, or, from whenever, I suppose.”

  “I’m afraid we are a little behind the times,” the brigadier called out from his chair.

  “How can that be?”

  “We hardly leave the library these days, except for the occasional picnic.”

  “Picnic?”

  “Ironically enough, we know very little about the present.”

  “How do you keep up with current events?”

  “Of course we glance at a newspaper now and again… but the exact present is so damn obscure,” the brigadier complained.

  “We generally keep to ourselves; anything we do learn usually comes from our guests, such as yourself,” Madeline explained.

  “Time travelers?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily, a good many of them are here for the temple.

  “The temple?”

  “Ah, I’ve said too much already.” Madeline fell silent.

  “You mean to say just anyone could knock on the door and come in?”

  “You did exactly that, Mr Jardel.”

  “Oh right.”

  “Of course anyone is welcome here, yet most people find the experience most bewildering. That is to say, they rarely return for a second visit.”

  “How many travelers are there?”

  “Quite a large number, but it’s not up to me to reveal anyone’s exact identity.”

  “There is our friend Kip… he works for your government,” the brigadier blurted.

  “Kip? Who’s Kip?”

  “Our good friend, Franklin.”

  “As in Franklin Delano… Roosevelt?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, that’s him. That’s the name he’s been using.”

  “Does Inspector Fynn know him?”

  “No, I don’t think so… not at all friends.”

  “And you are sure he’s a traveler?”

  “Well, I suppose he was a traveler. He’s rather stranded now,” Madeline replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s right, not a big jumper these days. Someone shattered both his legs with a sledgehammer.”

  “Whatever are you saying, dear brother? That’s not how I remember it at all.”

  “Really, Maddy? And what do you suppose happened to him?”

  “Caught that awful bug… I warned him not to go swimming.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “We’ll just have to ask Mr Jardel. He seems quite versed in this particular present.” Madame Madeline turned to me with quite a grin.

  I felt a bit awkward taking sides. “I’m going to have to go with polio on this one.” I half expected Madeline to stick her tongue out at her brother but she restrained herself remarkably well. “He’s dead,” I nearly whispered.

  “Dead, you say? How terrible.”

  “It gets worse… America seems to be plummeting towards fascism. We’re on the verge of a military coup d'état.”

  “All because of poor old Kip?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Well, who knew he was so damn heroic? We’d love to help, if we could… Is there anything we can do?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Of course, I do stroll to the future now and again,” the brigadier said.

  “And?”

  “Well, I seem to think a lot of people were wearing armbands, and there were quite a few odd flags about.”

  “Odd flags? You don’t mean red, white and black, like a swastika?”

  “Swastika? No, more of an eagle…”

  “That’s all you can say?”

  “Sorry. I’m afraid so. I should get out more, I suppose.”

  “Sort of a worthless place to go. There’s no future here, you know that Thomas, better than anyone.” Madeline gave her brother a look of contempt. “I haven’t lived there in years,” she said. “It’s a terrible world… All that blasting, day in and day out.”

  “Do you mean the quarry to our south, sister?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “All that ended thirty years ago or more, darling.”

  “Did it? Seems like only yesterday.” She let off a d
ramatic sigh. “At least those men will leave us alone now.”

  “Which men?”

  “The WPA, the CCC… whoever they were... Building all those wretched beach pavilions and roads and such.”

  “That wouldn’t be till next year, darling,” the brigadier said gently. “Or the year after that.”

  “But I remember…”

  “It was just a picnic, dear sister. If you recall, we stepped ahead a few years.”

  “A picnic? Oh yes, a picnic. Now I remember.” Madeline paused to consider. “What about all that lemonade we prepared for those nice young men?”

  “A very generous gesture on your part. And I seem to recall they were extremely grateful.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get used to that monstrosity of a bridge either.”

  It was difficult to follow Madeline and the brigadier’s conversation. I wandered over to the balustrade and peered down to the depths. I realized time in this place was not what I imagined and decided to broach the subject: “Time is different here, isn’t it?”

  “How do you mean, Mr Jardel?”

  “I’m not sure, can’t really put my finger on it…”

  “Time?” the brigadier called out from his comfy chair with a sharp cackle. “The boy is imbued with some common sense after all. My dear Patrick, time is a cosmic rubber band, coiling, stretching and twisting in on itself ever so slightly as the earth spins.”

  “Here at the library?”

  “Well, everywhere I suppose, but yes.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean… I think it flows differently, um, like time dilation…”

  “That’s rather astute. Time is much thinner here than outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “Outside the library, proper time.”

  “Proper time?” I asked.

  “Well, time as it is experienced by most people on the planet,” Madeline explained.

  “So it moves much slower inside.”

  Madame Madeline let go a giggle, and the brigadier a chuckle. “My dear boy, you have it completely backwards.”

  “Backwards? What do you mean?”

  “What good would it do as a librarian to have slow time? I might go down to the stacks, do a bit of dusting and I’d come back to find a hundred years have gone by. Tell me now, Patrick, is that anyway to run a library? I could never hope to keep up.”