“This has got to stop,” Chief Constable Norman had muttered to Diego whilst signing the documents. “The Magi are sinking further into a cesspool of chaos that I don’t believe they can crawl out from. They either get their act together and apprehend these criminals or governmental authorities may have to take matters into our own hands.”
Diego did not fear losing his job. However, he did worry over the Third Order’s reputation. They couldn’t risk being dragged onto the world stage, exposed and blamed for just about everything in history. And if that happened, their society would not survive.
Huffing in exasperation, Diego rolled onto his other side.
“Kid, would you go to sleep?”
Diego narrowed his eyes at Zaire’s voice. “I am trying.”
“Not hard enough.”
“Wow. Thanks for your overwhelming voice of concern.”
Zaire shifted in the bunk above him. A weighty sigh filled the silence. Diego could almost picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhausted indignation. “Go make yourself some of Ma’s Frankincense Tea. The one with chamomile in it. It works wonders, you know.”
“I hate that tea.”
“You liked it whenever Mista Jonas made it for you.”
“Yes, because he used the perfect ratio of tea to honey.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Grumbling, Diego threw the covers back, swung his legs out from underneath them, and crossed the room to open his trunk. Using the light from his glowing quartz crystal, his fingers scrounged amongst his collection of Souvenirs. From Aztec coins to postcards from France and a recovered necklace from a Spanish ship lost at sea, Diego’s time pieces spanned centuries. Millennia, even. He’d collected rock fragments, trinkets from traveling museum exhibits, and essentially, anything he could get his hands on to serve him in his Time Excursions.
But buried deep within the trunk—past the old books and arrowheads—were some of Diego’s most prized Souvenirs. Portions of rope from Jonas’ cenotes explorations. Old coins from the Netherlands. Handwritten letters. Everything that would lead him back to the beautiful adventures the two of them had shared over the last three years.
His hand closed around a party noisemaker and tiptoed back to the bunk, confiscating his pocket watch from the bedside table on the way back under the covers.
“I hope you’re not planning on blowing that thing when I’m just falling back into the dream world,” Zaire mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it,” Diego whispered, as he summoned the Celestial Lifeforce into his crystal. “If I cannot sleep, the least I can do is relive pleasant memories.”
Belfast, April 1905
When Diego opened his eyes again, he found himself leaning against the bookshelf in the Elysium common room. Not his astral projection, of course. His past self. The one with the goofiest grin, utterly bewitched by the sight in front of him.
Swallowing an unexpected surge of emotion, Diego turned to watch as Jonas wobbled on a step stool to affix a celebratory banner to the wall above the mantel. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, exposing his forearms in a way that made Diego lightheaded.
"This will not be a successful birthday party unless someone's face ends up in cake," stated Past Time Diego.
Once Jonas verified the cloth had been properly secured, he threw a puzzled glance over his shoulder. "Truly, the number of peculiar things you say on a daily basis is unmatchable.”
Past Time Diego surveyed Jonas' work. "It looks a tad crooked to me."
“Everything looks a tad crooked to you.”
Making his way to Jonas, Past Time Diego eased him off the stool and pulled him into an embrace. They pressed their foreheads together, smiles broad and eyes bright with happiness. Holding one another in blissful silence, they slowly rocked from foot to foot in their own sort of dance.
"Make way for the Queen of Cakes!" sang Annabelle as she waltzed into the Elysium common room. She gingerly placed the decadent multi-layered dessert upon the table and slowly, almost comedically, swivelled on heel to face Jonas and Diego. “Oh, I do hope I did not interrupt anything.”
“Not at all,” Jonas replied, ruffling Past Time Diego’s hair after he stepped out of his arms. “Can I help you with anything, Mum?”
“I think we are all set,” she exhaled in satisfaction. “Kierra and the children should be here soon; hopefully they get in before Zaire arrives. You know how he’s always early to every engagement.”
Within minutes, the entirety of the Irish Chapter crowded around the common room table, the celebratory nucleus of Elysium, each with their faces aglow from the candlelight.
Diego kept his eyes trained on Jonas, who kept glancing at his pocket watch in anticipation for Zaire’s approaching footsteps. Any moment now, the guest of honour would arrive, heralding the official beginning of the festivities.
"I think we should all hide and turn out the lights," suggested Oliver. "Birthday surprises make the best memories."
Diego could not argue with that logic.
"Oh, excellent idea!" Aja replied, clapping in excitement.
"You would probably give the old man a fright," Past Time Diego said just before he swiped his finger across the top of the cake. "He is a Taurus, after all."
Kierra slapped his hand away from the cake. "Diego!"
"Kierra!" he mocked her and smeared frosting across her nose.
"Shhh!" Jonas insisted, motioning for everyone to quiet down. "He’s coming downstairs."
The group's excitement muted to silence just as the door swung open, revealing an unsuspecting Zaire.
"Surprise!" Aja yelled.
“Mazel tov!” Oliver declared.
"Happy birthday!" Kierra said in a sing-song voice after blowing into a noisemaker.
"Congratulations on forty years of life, you old codger," Past Time Diego remarked, giving Zaire a light punch on the shoulder. "Feliz cumpleaños!"
"Gefeliciteerd, my friend," Jonas said reverently.
"Wow!" Zaire exclaimed, observing the vibrant decor. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Y'all didn't have to do this."
"Oh yes, we absolutely did, Mr. Jameson," Annabelle remarked. "Every year lived is a year to be celebrated."
"Even if you are ancient," whispered Past Time Diego out of the corner of his mouth.
Diego chuckled at his own antics.
"And this cake!" Zaire said, admiring the intricate confectionary swirls. "Ma, did you make this?"
"Red cocoa, your favourite," Annabelle happily confirmed.
"Y'all too kind," Zaire responded. He shook his head in disbelief.
"Hey, let's sing that facetious song you all like," suggested Past Time Diego with a shrug.
Kierra playfully rolled her eyes at his comment. "For he's a jolly good fellow," she began.
The rest of the Magi joined her in song.
"...for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellooowww, and so says all of us!"
The entire room erupted into cheers. Joy filled Diego’s heart as he watched his Magi family congregate around Zaire. He grinned, taking in their abundant enthusiasm as Annabelle dished out pieces of cake. Diego was grateful he had the ability to relive times like these. Who needed an expensive camera when every beautiful moment could be frozen within Time and cherished forever?
“Zaire, tell us about your birthdays in America,” Oliver mumbled, his mouth full of cake.
“Oliver, mind your manners, please,” Annabelle scolded him.
Aja snickered at Oliver and continued his train of thought seeing as he was still chewing through the massive bite. “Yes, how did you celebrate when you lived in New Orleans?”
“Much like this,” Zaire replied. “Back when I was a young’un, Pa would take me to watch street performers in the French Quarter while Ma cooked up jambalaya and cornbread. We’d end the night sitting out on the porch swing, just staring up at the stars. We wasn’t rich, but I could-a sworn I owned the world.”
“That is beautiful,” Aja sighed.
“But one of my most favourite traditions started when I turned sixteen,” Zaire continued. “My younger brother, Arnie, was upset after dealing with some bullies at school, and I really wanted to make him laugh. So, I took my piece of birthday cake and done smashed it in my face.”
Oliver and Aja howled in laughter. Kierra rolled her eyes. Diego applauded.
“I think we need a demonstration,” eagerly replied Past Time Diego.
Diego smiled. This was his favourite part.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Zaire agreed, turning toward Annabelle. “Ma, mind if I sneak another piece?”
“Anything for the Birthday Boy,” Annabelle said, pursing her lips into a smile as she supplied him the second helping.
Zaire took the plate and looked down into the sugary depths of the frosting. He cracked his neck and shook out his shoulders as he comedically prepared himself for impact. “All right, somebody count me down.”
“Five!” Aja screeched, bursting with exhilaration.
“Four...three,” Oliver, Diego, and Jonas joined in, “...two...ONE!”
Zaire lifted the plate toward himself but at the last moment, changed its trajectory and smashed the dessert in Past Time Diego’s face.
Oliver gasped. Aja opened her mouth in surprise. The entirety of the room fell into silent expectation for his imminent reaction.
At first, Past Time Diego just stood there, trying his best to hold in laughter as chunks of cake fell from his chin. “Oh, you did not just do that!” he finally exclaimed. He wiped the frosting from around his eyes and rushed at Zaire with handfuls of cake.
Zaire yelped and dodged the couch to avoid Diego’s enthusiastic wrath. “Ma, the kid is chasing me again,” he jokingly complained to Annabelle.
“In Mexico, we have our own traditions,” Past Time Diego said, knocking over the Moroccan side table in his haste. “And it is called ‘beating a piñata with a stick.’”
Jonas laughed and pushed up his sleeves even further. “Now, I think you both are forgetting something.”
Past Time Diego slowed his chase, staring back at Jonas in confusion. To anyone else, they wouldn’t be able to see much more than smeared cake remnants.
“You’re forgetting that despite my lack of dance skills, I have impeccable hand-eye coordination,” Jonas responded, striding over to the table to grab a fistful of dessert. “And I could never pass up an impromptu cake ambush.” He pitched the cake across the room, hitting Zaire square in the nose.
“Get ‘em, Jonas!” cheered Oliver.
“Go, go, go!” shouted Aja.
“Oh my,” breathed Kierra.
Past Time Diego nodded in appreciation toward his counterpart in cake-throwing crime. “Muy impresionante.”
“Why, thank you,” Jonas said, taking a bow.
Zaire used the moment to his advantage and scooped up the remains of Jonas’ ammunition only to toss it back at him.
“Argh, I’m hit!” Jonas groaned. He clutched his arm and crumpled theatrically to the floor. “The agony! Oh!”
Kierra placed her hands on her hips. “You buffoons are wasting perfectly good cake.”
“Cake never goes to waste when it is in your face!” Past Time Diego replied as his shoes slid over a slippery spot on the floor. He lost his footing and tripped over the corner of the rug, flailing before landing on Jonas.
Diego remembered it as clear as daylight. The light-hearted lurch in his abdomen. The thrilling spark, warm, yet fleeting. Swimming in his vast ocean blue eyes. Jonas was not merely his inamorato. He was his anchor. His reason for living. His everything.
Jonas reached up to wipe frosting from Past Time Diego’s cheek. “You have got a little something on your face,” he teased.
“You are just jealous you don’t have any on your face,” Past Time Diego replied. “But that can be arranged.”
Their eyes locked on each other for a moment before Past Time Diego closed the space between their lips.
For some reason, Diego could not bear to watch. He turned, chewing on the inside of his cheek, anything to distract him from the wildly content version of himself only metres away. He was a stranger. And so was the man beneath him.
“All right, that’s two down. Who else wants to crumble at the hands of the Cake King?” Zaire roared in a mighty—yet altogether hilarious—voice. He wrestled Oliver into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles over the boy’s head. “How about you, young’un?”
“Argh, I surrender, Cake King!” Oliver laughed, waving his cloth napkin. “I surrender!”
While the joyous party continued, Diego clutched the noisemaker in his palm and his pocket watch in the other. The hour hands began their forward progression on his familiar journey back to the Present.
Some things were meant to be left in the Past.
Chapter Thirty
Harland and Wolff
FOR THE ENTIRE SECOND half of the school day, Ezra found himself engrossed in the contents of the telegram he had received earlier that morning. He could not stop thinking about the meeting with the Harland and Wolff recruiter. In fact, it preoccupied so much of his awareness that his teachers spent substantial efforts reeling in his attention.
During arithmetic, an irritated Mr. Cotton smacked Ezra upside the head with a ruler, much to his classmates' entertainment. And in grammar class, Ms. O'Flannigan's beady little eyes burned in ferocity behind her spectacles when she discovered him staring idly out the window. Infuriated, she made him sit in the corner and wear the most ridiculous looking dunce cap until the final bell.
Stumbling through the daze of recent events, Ezra realised he hadn’t even told Aja and Oliver the news of his interview. While he imagined they would be excited for his opportunity, he had a sneaking suspicion Aja would make it clear that focusing on his newfound abilities was a much better decision.
It’s all for the best, he repeated to himself. My parents would want this for me. I want this for me.
When the last session had concluded, Ezra rushed toward the iron gates separating Belfast Royal Academy from the rest of the city. As it was not after dinner hours just yet, he knew they would still be open, granting him full access to the outside world. The soles of his shoes skidded across the loose gravel in the drive, but that did not deter him from picking up his pace.
Forward, ever forward. He could not slow down and neither would his corybantic thoughts. Opportunity awaited just beyond the bend.
By the time Ezra reached the Harland and Wolff shipyard, the sun slouched in the evening sky, shedding a pinkish hue over Queen's Island. Massive cranes and metallic gantries glinted in the dying daylight. Ezra scanned the vicinity for the magistrate, but he only saw merchants loading crates into their vessels and a man fishing at the end of one of the piers. Commercial ships hauling freight in the direction of the North Atlantic blasted their horns, echoing across the sound. Smaller boats drifted into their appointed docks. Seagulls dove in and out of marine traffic, eager to snag a bite of dinner from the fishermen's hauls.
Ezra did a second sweep of the property. No sign whatsoever of the magistrate.
He said to be here promptly at seventeen hundred hours, thought Ezra in a moment of panic. He double checked his telegram and next, his pocket watch.
17:07.
Seeing no other immediate option, Ezra wandered toward one of the benches overlooking the inlet. His heart pounded a steady drumbeat, rhythm hastening as the minutes pressed on. Swallowing his anxieties, Ezra decided his time was better served mentally rehearsing his prepared discourse for the recruiters.
Why yes, sir, I have demonstrated excellence in all my classes at Belfast Royal Academy while being employed by the institution, he imagined himself confidently stating. Put simply, I apply a firm dedication to any task before me. I believe you will find my devoted work ethic an asset to your already thriving company.
"Ah, Mr. Newport, there you are."
Ezra broke out of his
reverie as the magistrate approached the bench and patted away the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief.
"I apologise for my tardiness; the tram was running a bit behind this evening," Magistrate Byrne explained, smoothing over his curly auburn hair. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," Ezra replied.
"Good man," he commended and clapped Ezra heartily on the back. "Now, let's find our contact...er, Raphael, I believe he said his name was."
The two of them journeyed toward the main corporate building, a fortress built of brick and grandeur. Completely awestruck, Ezra’s eyes gazed at the striking lettering spelling out "Harland & Wolff" above the rows of arched windows. Everything about Queen's Island was drenched in industrialism and reeked of hard work and prosperity.
Here, dreams were built as tall as the smokestacks.
A middle-aged man with dark hair and even darker eyes sat casually upon the steps leading up to the entrance. A pipe drooped from his mouth, with smoke permeating through cracked lips. Bits of grey ash flecked over his worn cotton shirt and tweed trousers, the unofficial uniform of the blue-collar working class.
The man stood, brushed off his trousers, and nodded in greeting toward the magistrate and next to Ezra. "This must be our new talent, eh? Mr. Ezra Newport?"
"Yes, sir, hello," Ezra spoke nervously, shaking his hand.
"I am Raphael Longfellow, head of talent acquisition at Harland and Wolff," said the man. "Shall we take a tour of the facility before speaking on job specifics?"
"Uh, yes, sir, that sounds wonderful," Ezra agreed. He looked to the magistrate for affirmation, which was echoed in the Irish official's smiling eyes.
"Excellent. Follow me," instructed Raphael.
At once, Raphael guided them toward the shipyard. Ezra could barely keep pace; the man's long legs covered almost twice the distance in a single stride.
"Here at Harland and Wolff, we take great pride in building the best maritime vessels in the industry," said Raphael monotonously, almost as if he were quoting a brochure from memory. "We have several ships in various stages of production. In fact, the SS Ortega just commenced construction. We are looking to start on several other contracts in the next few years, including some ambitious orders from the White Star Line."
The Magi Menagerie Page 18