Valley of the Moon

by Melanie Gideon

  “That’s just it. She doesn’t seem unstable to me. Joseph—” She stopped. “What if she’s perfectly sane?”

  —

  “Put her in the wing. The back bedroom,” said Martha.

  I laid Lux on the bed and she did not wake. Since she was unconscious, the two of us took the opportunity to survey her openly.

  “What is the meaning of her shirt?” asked Martha.

  “Something…sexual?” I guessed.

  “Maybe. But why does she wear it?”

  “Perhaps she likes drawing attention to herself.”

  “How can she breathe in those trousers? That can’t be good for her reproductive organs. I wonder if she has any identification on her? I’m going to check her pockets,” Martha announced.

  She approached the bed and slid her hand into Lux’s left dungaree pocket. Nothing. From her right pocket she pulled out a wrinkled-up sweets wrapper. Jolly Rancher. She smelled it.

  “Cherry,” she said. “Admit it, Joseph.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve never seen any woman dressed like this.”

  “Yes, because I do not make a habit of cavorting with the insane.”

  “Oh, stop it. Something about her isn’t right, but it isn’t that she’s crazy. There is no mercantile on earth that sells clothes like this in 1906.”

  “You’re saying she’s telling the truth?”

  “I’m saying you have to open your mind. The unexplainable has already happened. We’ve been trapped by a fifty-foot wall of fog for four months. If we try to walk through it, we die. We must consider other”—she whispered, as if it hurt her to say it—“possibilities.”

  I sat down in a chair.

  “What are you going to do?” she demanded.

  “I’m going to wait until she wakes up.”

  “And then?” she pressed me.

  “And then I’ll ask her some more questions,” I said, trying to sound as if I had a plan.

  The sheets smelled of sun. The man who’d made me kill poor innocent Wilbur stood looking out the window, his back to me. I coughed and he turned around.

  “You’re awake,” he said.

  Joseph, that was his name. He was about six feet tall, with dark hair and eerie light blue eyes. His face was tanned and a bit weathered; he was middle-aged, probably in his forties, but he was in good shape. He bristled with vitality.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You fainted.”

  “I did?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember feeling dizzy.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  I took stock. No headache, no dizziness—I was hungry, however. “Starving.”

  “When did you eat last?”

  “Around seven last night. A couple of spoonfuls of Jif.”

  He made a funny face and I was embarrassed, as well as intimidated. He had a posh English accent.

  The room was furnished impeccably in nineteenth-century farmhouse décor; not a detail had been overlooked. There was a washstand with a basin and pitcher. A rag rug. A lantern hung on the wall. The floor was hardwood, studded with black nails. The mattress rustled beneath me. Horsehair.

  Why was the house outfitted like this? And why was this man dressed like Pa from Little House on the Prairie? Was this a movie set? Was he an actor? My mind kept scrabbling for purchase. The only thing that made sense was that they were in the middle of filming a scene when I arrived. But why didn’t they stop acting when I’d barged onto the set? And why did the pig die when I entered the fog? That wasn’t a special effect. The pig had really died; I’d felt its limbs go slack.

  My heart started to pound. I put my hand on my chest to try and slow it down.

  “Rest,” he said. “I’ll go get you something to eat.”

  The thought of being left alone panicked me. I grabbed ahold of his arm. “No, please don’t leave.”

  He stared down at my hand, seemingly taken aback that I’d touched him, and I forced myself to loosen my grasp.

  “I’m only going downstairs. I’ll be back in a few moments,” he said.

  I looked at him wild-eyed.

  “I promise, Lux.”

  He had a deep, resonant voice that immediately comforted me. It told me this was a man who did what he said he was going to do. Still, I didn’t want to be left alone.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You should stay.”

  “Nope, I’m coming.” I slid my legs over the side of the bed.

  When he saw that it was useless to try to stop me, he helped me to my feet and led me out of the room and toward the stairs. He pointed out the landing window. “That’s Martha, my wife.”

  A woman knelt in the garden, her back to us. She tossed a pile of weeds in a basket.

  “You live here? You and your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “For real? All the time?”

  “It appears so,” he said wearily.

  “Dressed this way? Sleeping on horsehair mattresses on purpose?”

  He stuck his head through the open window. “Martha!” he shouted.

  She swiveled around. It was the woman who’d asked me what was wrong just before I’d fainted.

  “For God’s sake, she’s awake, come inside!”

  Martha got to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. She, too, was attired head-to-toe in period garb. An ankle-length skirt, a long-sleeved blouse, and button-up boots.

  “You’re not an actor? This is not a movie set?”

  “No,” he confirmed.

  “I don’t understand. Why would you choose to live like you’re in the nineteenth century? Are you a religious sect? Is this some sort of a commune?”

  I didn’t really think they were a religious sect, but I hadn’t yet landed on any other plausible explanation. Oddly, he seemed as confused as I felt. His pupils enlarged as he took in my jeans and hiking boots; my appearance was just as shocking to him as his was to me.

  “Come down!” Martha called up from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  —

  Martha brought a bowl of plums to the table. She was a petite woman, so small that from a distance she looked like a child. Her blond hair was parted in the middle and pulled back severely, but she had a kind face.

  “Are you still hungry?” she asked. “Have some fruit.”

  I’d already devoured my sandwich. “No, thanks, I’m good.”

  We were making small talk but the atmosphere was dense. Questions were gathering like storm clouds. I had questions, too, but they could wait. Their need to know seemed more urgent.

  “We are not actors. We are not a religious sect. This is not a commune,” said Joseph.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you. I was just trying to understand what was going on. Where I was,” I said.

  “You’re at Greengage Farm,” said Martha. “In the Valley of the Moon. You’ve heard of Greengage?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Martha turned to Joseph, her eyebrows knit together in worry, no longer able to hide her emotions. “But we’ve been here for seventeen years. Everybody knows who we are.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry. I live in San Francisco. That’s probably why I’ve never heard of you.”

  Joseph picked up Martha’s hand and squeezed it.

  “It’s 1975?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said, baffled.

  He gave me a grave look.

  “What is the problem?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “It’s 1906 here.”

  —

  Joseph told me their story. It was simple enough. The earthquake. The fog. Stuck here for four months. Then I arrived.

  What wasn’t simple—believing it.

  “You can’t expect me to buy this,” I said.

  “It’s the truth,” said Joseph.

  “Well, if it’s the truth, I need proof.”

  “Where’s your proof you’re from 19
75?” he asked.

  “Look at me,” I said, pointing to my shirt.

  “Look at us. That’s your proof as well,” said Joseph.

  “Show her your passport,” said Martha. “In the parlor desk. Right-hand drawer.”

  He sighed, but left to retrieve it.

  “I’m sure this must be quite shocking,” said Martha. “But I assure you we are just as shocked.”

  I stared at her and shook my head. They were dressed this way because they were from the past? Because they’d somehow got stuck in time? It was laughable. But Martha didn’t look crazy. She looked completely sane.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. But what you’re asking me to believe is impossible,” I said.

  “I know,” said Martha.

  “It’s preposterous.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  Joseph returned with his passport. It wasn’t a booklet, like our current-day passports; it was a piece of paper pasted into a leather folio.

  By order of Queen Victoria, Joseph Beauford Bell is allowed to pass freely and without hindrance into the United States of America…blah, blah, blah, antiquated language. His date of birth. July 20, 1864. And at the bottom of the page—a photograph.

  Unmistakably him.

  —

  When I was a child, my father forbade me to read science fiction or fantasy. Trash of the highest order, he said. He didn’t want me muddying up my young, impressionable mind with crap. If it wasn’t worthy of being reviewed in the Times, it did not make it onto our bookshelves.

  So while my classmates gleefully dove into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Borrowers, I was stuck reading Old Yeller.

  My saving grace—I was the most popular girl in my class. That’s not saying much; it was easy to be popular at that age. All you had to do was wear your hair in French braids, tell your friends your parents let you drink grape soda every night at dinner, and take any dare. I stood in a bucket of hot water for five minutes without having to pee. I ate four New York System wieners (with onions) in one sitting. I cut my own bangs and—bam!—I was queen of the class.

  As a result I was invited on sleepovers practically every weekend, and it was there that I cheated. I skipped the séances and the Ouija board. I crept into my sleeping bag with a flashlight, zipped it up tight, and pored through those contraband books. I fell into Narnia. I tessered with Meg and Charles Wallace; I lived under the floorboards with Arrietty and Pod.

  I think it was precisely because those books were forbidden that they lived on in me long past the time that they should have. For whatever reason, I didn’t outgrow them. I was constantly on the lookout for the secret portal, the unmarked door that would lead me to another world.

  I never thought I would actually find it.

  —

  While I examined Joseph’s passport, Martha did some quick calculations on a piece of paper.

  “Joseph, if she’s telling the truth, sixty-nine years have passed out there, but only four months in Greengage. That means almost three and a half of her hours pass per minute here. She’s been here half an hour at least. That’s about four and a half days she’s been gone. Her people will be panicked. We’ve got to take her back to the fog immediately.”

  If she’s telling the truth. They didn’t believe me? Martha looked stricken with worry. Real worry, not fake. Three and a half hours passing per minute? Come on! Part of me wanted to laugh. I half expected a camera crew to come busting out of the pantry. But what if they were telling the truth and three and a half hours were passing per minute here? Oh God. If I stayed in Greengage just another hour, almost two weeks would have gone by at home.

  “I’ve got to go!” I cried.

  “Yes, you do,” said Martha.

  “No, you don’t,” said Joseph firmly. “There’s no need to panic. You’re on regular time now. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “We can’t take that chance, Joseph,” said Martha.

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” I asked, getting more and more confused.

  “Come,” said Martha. “We’ll take you to the fog. We’ll try and explain as we’re walking.”

  I looked back and forth between the two of them. If they were acting, they were putting on an amazing show.

  —

  We walked at a brisk pace, just short of a jog.

  “That feeling we’ve had on full moon days, Martha…that sensation,” Joseph said. He trailed off—whatever it was he was trying to describe was not easily articulated.

  “Let me ask you something, Lux. Does it feel like time is racing by right now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  In fact it felt like the opposite. My anxiety was making time feel as opaque as stone.

  “It feels like it’s passing normally, correct?” he prompted.

  “Well, it’s not exactly zipping along,” I said.

  “For you, too, Martha?”

  “Yes.”

  “But yesterday, before she came?” he asked Martha.

  They exchanged solemn glances.

  “What? Tell me,” I said.

  “Yesterday the day was over in what felt like an hour,” she said. “It’s been like that every full moon day since the earthquake.”

  “We knew it, we just didn’t want to acknowledge it. The existence of this young woman confirms it,” Joseph said to Martha. “Time has been speeding up on full moon days and to the tune of approximately fourteen years. But only on full moon days.” He turned to me. “The rest of the days of the month—like today—time passes here exactly as it passes out there on the other side of the fog.”

  He nodded at me. “I don’t think you’re in any danger, Lux. You made it through the fog perfectly fine. And unlike us, it appears you can leave anytime. You can leave right now if you want to.”

  We had reached the meadow. The wall of fog still hung there.

  “I think she should go,” said Martha. “We don’t want to take any chances.”

  I thought of Benno with my parents. Day two of his vacation.

  “Please, go,” pleaded Martha.

  “If I go, will I be able to come back?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  I’d always had a sixth sense about Benno being in danger. I knew moments before he fell off the jungle gym that he was about to fall off. I would often wake in the middle of the night just before he woke with a nightmare. We were that close, that connected. I tried to reach out to him, to feel him three thousand miles away in Newport. I sensed nothing but good, clear energy. He was probably sitting on the couch with my mother, eating apple slices.

  “I want to test out the fog once more,” I said. “Make sure I’m okay in it. That I really can leave whenever I want.”

  Martha gave me a concerned look.

  “I’ll stay in there just a minute,” I said.

  “You have somebody—at home?” Joseph asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you decide not to come back, we’ll understand,” he said.

  Heart thudding, I walked into the fog. It was thick, but I had no trouble breathing. In fact, it seemed completely indifferent to me. I turned my back on Greengage and tried to peer through the fog to my campsite. I saw the faintest of glows, which comforted me: it was daylight in my time just as it was daylight here. I listened carefully and heard the hum of Route 12. And then a song. A car radio as it drove by. The unmistakable chorus of Captain and Tennille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together.” That song reassured me like nothing else—it was on a constant loop on every station in 1975.

  “A minute’s up,” said Joseph.

  I hesitated, then stepped into the past.

  —

  “You’re sure?” I asked Joseph, back at the house. “That unless it’s the day of the full moon, time passes regularly here?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  Martha frowned. “I still think she should go back.”


  Now that I’d convinced myself time was passing normally on the other side of the fog, I didn’t want to go, and I didn’t want them to force me to. I had something to offer them. Information. I would parcel it out to them while trying to figure out what was really going on.

  “We studied the earthquake in school,” I said. “It leveled San Francisco. The city went up in flames. It was an eight-point-something on the Richter scale.”

  “The Richter scale?” asked Joseph.

  “It’s a way to measure the magnitude of a quake.”

  “Eight points is high?”

  “It’s a monster.”

  “We kept waiting for somebody to rescue us,” said Martha. “We were well known in Sonoma. We sold our produce to every restaurant and grocery store within fifty miles of the farm. Why didn’t people come looking for us?”

  Joseph rubbed his temples and sank lower in his seat. I could see the depression enveloping him. Crazy or not, I had to do something.

  “When I go home, I’ll get help.”

  “What kind of help could you possibly get?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Who could figure out a way to get you out of the fog? A physicist?”

  He gave me a skeptical look.

  “Maybe a meteorologist?” I said, attempting a joke. “Look, I’m not kidding. There’s got to be a solution.” Even though part of me was still not accepting the reality of all this, I forged ahead. “What about if I got some sort of a vehicle here? We could drive you through the fog.”

  “We tried that,” said Joseph. “We have a Model T. Magnusson built a compartment for it. It was airtight. It didn’t work.”

  The front door opened and footsteps pattered down the hallway.

  “My sister, Fancy,” said Joseph.

  The woman who’d hugged me when I first arrived walked into the room. Her dark hair was cut in a pixie. She wore crimson silk pants and a green kimono top. Compared to Joseph and Martha, she looked like a circus performer.

  “Is it true?” she asked Joseph. “Is it true?” she asked me, not waiting for her brother’s reply. “Are you really from 1975?”

  “I am.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’ve missed everything,” she cried.

  I understood what it was like to feel like life was passing you by.

  “Did women finally get the right to vote?” she asked.