Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3)

by Annette Laing

  “But I’m black,” Alex said, crying now. “He’ll know I’m a runaway. He won’t want anything to do with me, or he’ll sell me to the Indians.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Hannah, although she really wasn’t sure. “He’ll help . . . .”

  And then she heard the sounds of approaching men on horseback.

  “Quick,” she whispered. “We gotta hide. There’s no time to run.” She pointed to the thick undergrowth in which they had hidden when they first found the hut in the woods, and the three of them hurried toward it.

  The two men chatted nervously as they rode side-by-side along the trail through the woods. “I suppose she is herself a runaway slave,” said Mr. Gordon, pistols hanging from his side.

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” replied Mr. Jones, shifting his hands on the reins. “Didn’t you know? The slaves tell me she is a white woman.” Mr. Gordon looked askance at his companion. “Good Lord. Are you sure?” For a moment, he seemed lost for words. But then he seemed to gather his

  wits. “Regardless, she has cost me my slave and my servants, and she is a disruptive and dangerous presence. It is our duty as vestrymen and magistrates to suppress her.”

  “By which you mean . . . ?” Mr. Jones said anxiously.

  “I think you know what I mean,” Mr. Gordon growled from between gritted teeth. “For God’s sake, man, who will miss her? But we must never mention this again, do you understand me? Dealing with her is a matter for the law, but you and I are the law in St. Swithin’s Parish. There are others, of course, who may not understand the difficult position we occupy. We are engaged in a war for our very survival.”

  Mr. Jones gulped and nodded.

  As the kids watched from their hiding place, the two men dismounted and tied their horses to trees at the trail’s edge. They walked silently through the woods the rest of the way to the hut.

  Hannah looked at Brandon, raising her eyebrows in a question: What are they going to do? Brandon shrugged, and grimaced.

  “There is the place,” whispered Mr. Jones, staring at the tiny house through the trees.

  “Follow me,” whispered Mr. Gordon, as he led the way to the front of the hut, pulling out both of his pistols and cocking them. The guns clicked sharply.

  As Mr. Jones kept a safe distance behind him, Mr. Gordon stepped forward, lifted his right leg, and kicked the door open.

  Cautiously, he entered the darkened hut, calling out, “Reveal yourselves.”

  “Only me,” said the Professor calmly. She was sitting in her accustomed rocking chair by the smoldering fireplace. “But I expect it’s me you’ve come for. I wondered when you would get here.”

  Without a word, Mr. Gordon stepped forward, raised a pistol, and fired.

  Alex jumped up to scream, and Hannah slapped a hand over his mouth just in time. Her heart was pounding, and her breathing quickened. Brandon’s knees gave way, and he slumped to the ground, his head in his hands.

  Hannah watched in horror from the undergrowth as Mr. Gordon brought a flaming stick from the house, and tossed it in the front door as he left, closing the door behind him. In silent agony, she watched as the two men waited for smoke to seep from the unglazed windows. When it did, they ran back to their horses, still unaware of the kids’ presence.

  As soon as the men had galloped off, the kids ran to the house. Hannah threw herself at the door. It opened, but she was driven back by the thick smoke.

  “Don’t go in,” screamed Brandon, dragging her away from the hut. “It’s too dangerous. She’s already dead, Hannah. If you go in there, you won’t make it out.”

  Hannah threw herself on the ground, and pounded her fists in the dirt in frustration. Alex fell to his knees beside her, and threw his arm around her as he cried helplessly. Brandon wept quietly, his hand cupped around his mouth in shock.

  Suddenly, Fred emerged from the woods at a run. Before the kids could stop him, he dashed into the house, pulling his shirt up over his nose and mouth as he did so, and immediately dropped to his knees to crawl through the cleaner air near the floor.

  Seconds later, he staggered outside with the Professor in his arms, and after he made it a safe distance, he gently laid her on the forest floor. Her face was covered in soot from the smoke. Worse, a huge blot of blood seeped through the cloth of her shortgown.

  Lying on the ground with her head nestled in Fred’s lap, the Professor opened her eyes. “A pity eighteenth-century guns never quite shoot straight,” she murmured. “I think he was aiming for my head, but he seems to have got me in the chest instead.”

  Hannah, Brandon, and Alex sobbed, clinging to each other, and tears flowed down Fred’s cheeks, but the Professor smiled. “Don’t cry on my account, kids. Fred, take care of yourself, darling. And thank you for looking after me.”

  Still smiling gently, she closed her eyes, and was gone.

  The kids looked up. They were in the park in Snipesville.

  They were home. And Fred and the Professor were nowhere to be seen.

  When Hannah, Brandon, and Alex vanished before his eyes, Fred was frightened. He knew that there were spirits in the woods, of course, but he would never have guessed that the two young white servants and the slave boy were among them. He had little time to waste worrying about it, though, for the thick smoke was rising in a steady column above the trees, and would surely draw attention. Fortunately, it would not take long to bury his dear wife. The loamy soil in the woods was easily shifted.

  Fred used his old shovel to dig the grave as fast as he could. It wasn’t very deep, but he hoped it was deep enough that animals would not disturb her. When he was done, he laid the Professor’s body in the hole. He quickly covered her with pine straw and sandy soil, trying not to look at her face, and then pulled out his flask from his pocket. Sobbing helplessly, he poured the last of his whiskey onto the grave, and silently commended the woman he knew as Annie to the spirits of her ancestors.

  Moments later, with one last grieving look at his wife’s resting place, he stole away toward the river bank, where his canoe was hidden, and toward his next life, wherever fortune would lead him.

  The boys hugged, tears still wet on their faces, but their grief was now mixed with joy at being home.

  “You’re white!” Brandon said, pointing to Alex.

  “You’re black again!” Alex said, jabbing a finger in Brandon’s chest.

  There was an awkward silence. “We better get home,” Alex said in a subdued voice. “It’s getting dark.”

  Hannah was still sitting on the ground, and her brother looked at her with concern. “You okay, sis?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said, rubbing her head. “Coming back just made me a little dizzy, that’s all. But I feel better than I did. Now it’s like I never had malaria.”

  “The usual, then,” said Brandon. “Whatever happens to our bodies in the past, stays in the past. I hate it, because I get really fit and healthy with all that work, and then when I get home, my gut comes back. But it’s just as well you didn’t come back with malaria. I have no idea how we would have explained that.”

  Still, Hannah didn’t move. “Give me a second, guys,” she said in a subdued voice. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

  Nobody wanted to talk about what had happened to the Professor.

  Brandon crouched down next to Hannah. “Do you think you have what they call shock? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Hannah said nothing, but continued to stare at what once had been the clearing around the Professor’s house in the woods. The area was cordoned off with police tape, and two archeology students were still poking around with trowels.

  Without a word, the boys sat down next to Hannah and waited for her, watching the pink sky on layered clouds of a Georgia sunset.

  Across the street, a police car pulled to a stop. The young cop gave the kids a long hard look, and opened his door.

  “Where have you been?” Mr. Dias yelled. Alex had never seen his father so angr
y. “I don’t see the point in giving you guys cell phones if you don’t use them. I had to call the police to go look for you. I had to skip an important meeting. My boss isn’t happy, and neither am I.”

  Unlike her brother, Hannah wasn’t concerned or nervous. She didn’t really care. His anger seemed so small, so unimportant after all that she had been through. That was why she remained strangely calm as she stood in the living room, listening to her father’s rant.

  Finally, he lapsed into silence. “You’d never believe me,” Hannah said quietly, “so there’s no point in telling you, Dad. But it wasn’t our fault.”

  Mr. Dias looked worried now. “So what’s going on?” he said. “Are you guys all right?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay,” Alex said wearily. “Just tired. It’s been a long time.”

  Mr. Dias’s face grew furious again. “A long time? I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” he snapped. “Go to your rooms.”

  “I am really hungry,” Alex said plaintively.

  “Whatever,” said Mr. Dias. “I gotta go back to the office. Make yourself sandwiches.”

  “Fine with me,” muttered Alex.

  “What was that?” said Mr. Dias suspiciously, looking at his son.

  “Nothing,” Alex said sullenly, turning away from his father.

  Brandon’s mom was not pleased. Not pleased at all.

  “How could you just vanish like that?” she demanded, wagging a finger in her youngest son’s face.

  Brandon thought it best not to reply. This was not a discussion he wanted to have with his mother.

  But Mrs. Clark wasn’t giving up so easily. “You’ve got nothing to say for yourself? Nothing?”

  Brandon’s dad was standing behind his wife. He didn’t say anything, but he looked mad, too.

  I’m just too tired to deal with this, Brandon thought.

  Suddenly, his mom stopped and rubbed her eyes. “I just don’t get it, Brandon. You’ve been like a different child these past few months. I mean that in a good way, you know? Your dad and I have been so proud of you. It’s like you matured overnight. So why mess up now?”

  I want to tell them, Brandon thought. I want them to know what’s going on. Dr. Braithwaite would support me, I know he would. He’d convince them I’m a time-traveler. Or would he?

  Brandon, with sinking heart, now imagined Dr. Braithwaite saying, “The only people who know about your time travel are Verity and me. Who else would believe it?”

  There was no point in trying to tell his parents. They wouldn’t understand. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said dully.

  “Try me,” shot back his mom.

  But Brandon just stared into space, as one tear after another slowly leaked from the corner of his right eye.

  Chapter 14: LOOK BACK

  Dr. George Braithwaite thought back over his long life with a great deal of satisfaction. No question about it, he had started out badly: Orphaned as a young boy in England, he was evacuated to safety from the bombing of the cities during World War II, only to find himself suffering under the rule of a cruel foster mother.

  But little George was rescued from this living hell. To his rescue came an unlikely band of kids: a working-class evacuee boy named Eric, a smart and rather posh young lady called Verity, and—most surprising of all—Hannah and Alex, two fellow evacuees. He also met Alex and Hannah’s friend, another refugee who, like little George, was black.

  Three of those children had faded from his life, but in the years that followed, the love of George’s adoptive parents Arthur and Diana Healdstone, his friends Eric and Verity, and Verity’s formidable grandmother, Elizabeth Devenish, had healed his ragged soul.

  With their support, George Braithwaite took charge of his future. He worked hard at school and university, and as a young man in the 1950s, he emigrated to America.

  For a very long time, he had lived in Snipesville, Georgia. He had served as doctor to most of the black people in town and, after desegregation, to many of the white folks too. Now, he was enjoying his retirement. He had good health, the freedom to travel, and the time to tend to his roses.

  The last thing he had expected in his twilight years was to meet the very same kids who had rescued him in 1940. And they were indeed the very same: When George met Hannah, Alex, and their friend Brandon just a few months ago, they had not physically changed since World War II.

  Freaky though that meeting was, George had grown fond of the kids. Once he learned that they were time-travelers, he worried constantly about them, and he was determined that so long as he was alive and able, he would care for them.

  Which was why, when Brandon’s mother called him that evening, Dr. George Braithwaite hurried to his car.

  “I am so sorry to bother you, Doctor B.,” said Mrs. Clark the moment she opened the door. “I know you’re not a psychiatrist, but you know Brandon, and we just want your advice about him. Like I told you on the phone, he didn’t go to school today, and he won’t tell us where he went. We are so concerned.”

  Dr. Braithwaite gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course you are. May I speak with him?”

  She nodded gratefully, and showed him the way to Brandon’s room.

  When he knocked, Brandon grunted. Dr. Braithwaite entered, then closed the door behind him.

  “So where was it this time?” he asked quietly, moving a pile of books from the only chair onto the floor so he could sit down.

  Brandon was sitting on the bed, gazing out the window. Now, he looked up at the old man, saw the loving concern written across his face, and dropping his head, he burst into tears.

  When he could speak, he told the old man everything he could remember.

  “I feel terrible about what happened to the Professor,” Brandon hiccupped when his story was done. “But that’s not the only thing that got to me.”

  He had described to Dr. Braithwaite so much of what had happened, and yet, still, he hadn’t figured out for himself why he was so upset. He struggled with his thoughts and feelings. “It was so weird,” he said, “looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger. Although it was interesting to see how white people took me seriously when I had white skin.”

  His face was set, and his voice was bitter. “Yes, it was very interesting. It felt weird being a white person, like I was a traitor or something.”

  Dr. Braithwaite snorted. “That’s just silly. It wasn’t your doing, son. You had nothing to do with it. And it didn’t change who you are, did it? That’s a lesson in itself.”

  “I know,” Brandon sniffed, “But . . . I don’t know how to say this . . . . It’s . . . it’s like I was there at the beginning, when things went wrong in Georgia. You know? When slavery was getting started, and white people were learning to hate black people, and black people were learning to hate white people. I was a bit afraid of black people, to be honest. And I understood why they were afraid of me, because I was white, but I couldn’t get them to talk to me about it.”

  “From what you have told me, though,” Dr. Braithwaite said slowly, “it sounds to me as though you did everything you could to help everyone around you. And perhaps that’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” Brandon asked dully.

  Dr. Braithwaite took a deep breath. “All those adult responsibilities, that’s what I mean, Brandon. You’re being thrown into situations that people can scarcely imagine, without any warning or preparation, and you’re expected to act like an adult. That’s a lot to take on at your age. And then, being you, you do take it all terribly seriously, and you hold yourself to a higher standard than would most adults, much less kids.”

  “Yes, I guess I do,” Brandon admitted.

  Dr. Braithwaite sighed heavily. “Look, can your Dr. Harrower help you find out why this has happened to you? She’s still alive in the present day, isn’t she?”

  “She’s missing,” Brandon said distantly. “Maybe when she gets back, I can ask her. If she gets back. But you know I’ve tried before. We’ve
all tried. She never wants to answer our questions. And based on what I saw this time, I’m not sure she has any answers.”

  “Hmm,” said Dr. Braithwaite. “I need to speak with her on your behalf. From what little I’ve learned about her, she seems a rather slippery individual. You need an adult in your corner, Brandon, and it looks as though I’m it. This woman needs to tell you as much as she knows, and to help all of you prepare for your adventures. It’s time, I think, that she took greater responsibility for what happens to you.”

  “So you think Hannah was right,” said Brandon, “that the Professor is responsible for all this? That’s not what Hannah thinks anymore, you know.”

  Dr. Braithwaite didn’t seem perturbed by this development. “Doesn’t she now?” he said. “Actually, that’s no longer what I think either. Not after what you have told me about her being marooned in the eighteenth century. But I am confident that Dr. Harrower could be more forthcoming. And since Verity’s family keeps popping up in your adventures, perhaps she can help us, too.”

  “But how can Verity help?” Brandon asked incredulously. “I mean, for one thing, she’s all the way across in England.”

  In reply, Dr. Braithwaite smiled. “Honestly, Brandon, from what you say, one would think we were still in the eighteenth century. Have you never heard of Skype?”

  Hannah stood silently in the office doorway and watched the Professor as she sorted through a pile of photocopies. She was fascinated by how young the Professor seemed, at least compared with the elderly woman she had met in 1752. And it was such a relief to see her alive and well.

  “Hi,” she said quietly.

  The Professor jumped slightly, spun around, and broke into a broad smile. “Hannah! What a lovely surprise!” She pointed to the other chair. “Have a seat, please.”

  Hannah smiled awkwardly and sat down. “So, you came back,” she said. “I heard you were looking for me,” said the Professor, closing a window on her computer screen. “I just got home, in fact. I’m afraid I upset quite a few people because nobody could get ahold of me. I honestly didn’t mean to cause a fuss, and for the record, I was absolutely fine. But what a pity I missed all the excitement about the skeleton that Sonya Barrett dug up downtown. Did you hear about that?”