Lost in Time_Split-Second Time Travel Story 1

by Ken Johns

  “So how long have you been here?”

  Great. Now Wilson wanted to chitchat. “About six months.” Six months that had started out crappy but turned out pretty awesome. Uncle Abe had bought the rights to the time travel technology when its patent had ended. He started the SSTTC and offered Chad the guide job on the medieval tour because he remembered Chad had had a poster of a castle on his bedroom wall. When he was twelve. But Chad had said sure. It beat the hell out of working at the Supercenter in Austin.

  “Still like it?”

  Margaret’s wet kiss still cooled his lips.

  “More than ever,” Chad said.

  Mr. Wilson nodded behind them. “I can see why.”

  Chad shrugged. “Well, you know. A man’s got to live, right?”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “There’s no harm. We’re both adults.”

  “Well, we all had to sign an armload of waivers that said we wouldn’t even speak to the locals before we were allowed to come.”

  Chad had forgotten Wilson was a lawyer. He shifted on the bench. If Wilson told the SSTTC, he could be in deep shit.

  But Wilson pressed on. “You see where I’m going with this, don’t you? How can it be okay for you to have intimate contact, when your company thought it prudent for us to have no contact whatsoever?”

  “Look, I get it, man.” Chad twitched the reins. He’d been good at first. For months he’d lived like a monk. Then he’d started experimenting. He’d chatted with the villagers a bit and they were friendly enough. He’d started going to the local alehouse on his days off. That was where he’d met Margaret. She’d been an alewife. She’d lost her husband and she barely made enough to feed herself. He’d asked her if she wanted to come and work with him. She’d said yes, and since then she’d said yes to pretty much everything he’d ever asked her.

  “Isn’t this the kind of thing that will corrupt the timeline?” asked Wilson. “Maybe not now, but eventually? What if Margaret was supposed to meet somebody else, but she won’t because she lives with you?”

  “Look, dude, did you notice anything changing in the future before you came back?”

  “No, but…”

  “Well, there you go.” Chad cut him off. “Margaret and I have been together for two months now. Doesn’t that prove it’s safe?” Chad smiled at him and hoped Wilson would drop it.

  But Wilson had the scent. “Not really,” he said.

  “Dude, there’s a fail-safe in place, but you’re not supposed to know about it.” Chad couldn’t talk about the APR, but he had to tell Wilson something just to shut him up.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s bad for business.”

  “Hell, you’ve got my money already. So, why not tell me?”

  Chad lowered his voice and leaned toward Wilson. “The plague,” he said.

  “The plague?” Wilson’s head whipped around, searching the forest.

  “Shh. Keep it down, man. What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know.” Wilson returned his attention to Chad. “How is the plague a fail-safe?”

  When the black plague struck Europe in the mid-fourteenth century, there had been, on average, a fifty-percent mortality rate. As with every average, there had been highs and lows. In this particular town the death toll had been one hundred percent. That fact alone had brought the SSTTC here to stage their Medieval Canterbury tour. It was the perfect fail-safe. If any of the time travelers were to have significant contact with the locals, it wouldn’t matter in the long run, because they would all be dead inside seven years. But that didn’t read very well from a PR standpoint, so it was a company secret.

  Chad whipped the reins. “I can’t talk about it.”

  Chapter Seven

  April 25, 1341

  A green log snapped, sending a comet of sparks spiraling toward the four wolfhounds asleep on the hearth in the great hall. Baron Reginald Fitzdumay, constable of Sussbury Castle, pushed the offending log deeper into the fireplace with the iron poker. “You are not making any sense, Edward. I still do not see any reason to start a manhunt at vespers.”

  Edward clasped his hands and shut his eyes. Lord, grant me the patience to convert this witless man into your holy instrument. He opened his eyes as Reginald returned from the fire. “Let me try again, my lord. I am sure I can rephrase my incoherent ramblings in a way that will make perfect sense to you.”

  “If you insist.” Reginald heaved himself into a chair by his dogs. “But be quick about it. I have problems of my own.” He tilted his head toward the table, where his ledgers lay unattended.

  “Yes, my lord.” Edward plucked an apple from the bowl on the sideboard. He sat down in a chair across from Reginald. The wolfhounds growled.

  “Shut it!” Reginald lingered on the last word.

  The wolfhounds whimpered and put their heads down on the hearthstones.

  Edward took a bite. The sweet white meat cleansed his teeth while it pleased his tongue. The apple had such an unfortunate reputation for something so delicious. It was all Eve’s fault. He let his gaze drift over the ledgers on the table, always a little surprised that Reginald could even read. “What is the nature of your problems, my lord?”

  “They are my problems.”

  “I do not mean to pry, my lord, but I thought the problems might be related.” If I could describe my problems in terms of your problems, they would be our problems, do you not see? You ass. He waited to see if Reginald would reveal anything.

  “My earnings are down this season.” Reginald nodded to his ledgers. “Yet I thought we had exceptionally good weather this year. Chamberlain said when we finish paying for the tournament and the wedding, we will hardly have enough to keep us through the winter. I have been through the ledgers to confirm it, and there is no mistake. Can you explain to me how my share of an exceptional year can be less than that of a normal year?”

  “I do believe I can, my lord.” Edward took another bite of apple. “The villagers have begun to complain. They complain about their labors. They complain about their wives, their feudal obligations, and even the church tithe. For weeks I have heard nothing but heresy during confession. They are changing.”

  “How?”

  “They are… thinking.”

  “Of course they are.” Reginald dismissed this statement with a wave.

  “The people are thinking more… independently.” Edward had to find a way to put it so this cretin could understand the danger. “They question everything. It is as though they have awoken from a long sleep and are no longer satisfied with their lot. I cannot placate them.”

  “But why? Have I not been fair?” Reginald raised his voice. “Have I not been tolerant?”

  “Yes. Of course you have.” Edward glanced around the great hall to make certain none of the servants could overhear him. “I believe the people are bewitched.”

  “Come now, Edward.” Reginald shook his head. “I do not believe in witches any more than you do.”

  “Ordinarily no, but this is new. Until today I had no idea who or what could have visited this evil into the hearts of an entire village. I was on my way here to discuss it with you when I came across a carriage surrounded by the villagers. When I drew near, I was handed a parcel of food so intoxicating I was forced to drop it, lest I devour it on the spot.” He searched Reginald’s face for some spark of recognition or even intelligence.

  “What does the heresy in confession have to do with good food? Have you lost your wits?”

  Edward pressed on. “Moments before, a strange woman had entered the confessional with no intention of confessing. I tried to find her outside the cathedral to ask her why, but she had vanished.”

  Reginald threw up his hands. “I am lost.”

  “She was one of the occupants of the carriage. Do you not see?” Edward willed Reginald to understand. “Today I realized these impenitent strangers entice our villagers with exotic foods, and while the unsuspecting fools stand around e
ating, they talk to them and put these heresies into their ears. I tried to question the driver, but he drove away, refusing to obey my commands.”

  Reginald stared into the fire and, finally turning, he said, “What reason could they have for disturbing my peace?”

  “You must find this carriage and its occupants. They alone can provide the answers. I believe they are spreading Satan’s word into our land to test our faith.” But to make sure this simpleton baron did not miss the point, Edward added, “They test the people’s fealty itself.”

  “It sounds like revolution. Captain Henri!” Reginald bellowed in the general direction of the door.

  Edward sighed. That took longer than it should have.

  Chapter Eight

  April 25, 1341

  The abbess sat in the back of the carriage and peeked out through the curtains. Chad had stopped in the meadow and asked the Turners and the Wilsons to leave the carriage. Mrs. Turner had whispered goodbye to her as they stepped out into the meadow. The abbess had managed to stay hidden, watching Chad lead them up the slope. He said goodbye to them as they climbed, but there was no village nearby and no other path out of the meadow. They stopped a short distance away, and she strained to hear more of what he said.

  Chad handed them an orb. They each placed a hand on it. Chad backed away and took a piece of cloth out of his pocket. He placed it over his head, like an executioner’s hood. Surely, he was not sending them to meet their maker. It could not be. She held the curtain open to get a better look, but Chad had no visible weapon. It appeared to be a ceremony of some kind, but she could not discern its meaning.

  The meadow erupted in a light so brilliant she fell back onto her seat in the carriage. She ran her fingertips across her eyelids just to see if they were closed. The carriage rocked beneath her. Chad climbed into the driver’s seat. She opened her eyes and lunged for the curtain. She looked back up the slope to the spot where Mrs. Turner and the others had been. She searched, hoping she might see a movement or something in the bluebells that would give a clue as to what had happened. The carriage rolled in a circle and she lost sight of the spot.

  She stuck her head out the window to look up at Chad. “What have you done?”

  Chad spun around. “How did you get here?”

  “Where is Mrs. Turner?”

  “Home.”

  “Do not lie to me, you monster.” She pointed at his face. “I saw you kindle them.”

  “Look, you don’t understand.” He reined in the horses and began to climb down.

  Did he intend to send her home? She held the door closed from the inside. “What are you doing?”

  “I came to help you up onto the driver’s bench so we can talk,” he said.

  “I am quite comfortable here, thank you.” She tightened her grip on the door.

  “We need to get moving. If you want to hear the explanation, you need to sit up with me. I don’t feel like yelling as I drive.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “Look, I’m going back up. If you want answers, you’ll have to join me.”

  The carriage rocked as he climbed. She opened the door and stepped out into the meadow. Chad stared down at her. He was just a man. She sensed no animosity from him, just a mild anger. Or was it fear?

  “Last chance.” Chad picked up the reins.

  She needed to hear what he had to say but she had no desire to be that close to him. She started climbing. There had never really been a choice, and besides, she had her dagger. If he pulled out his little hood, it would be the last thing he ever pulled out.

  Chad drove in silence through the darkening forest. The horses knew the way, which allowed him to focus on what to tell the abbess. No one was supposed to know about the time travel station or the process. Now he had to tell her everything just so she didn’t think he’d killed her newfound friends. That would make her an extreme liability. If his uncle found out, he was totally getting fired. He had to contain this.

  The abbess sat watching him. “I am waiting.”

  “I know.” Chad urged the horses. “I’m trying to think of the best way to put this.”

  “I find the truth to be of value in a case like this.” She raised an eyebrow as if daring him to lie.

  “I don’t know whether you could understand the truth.” He hadn’t decided how much he could really tell her.

  “Are you suggesting I am daft?” Her eyebrows threatened to disappear up inside her coif.

  “No, no,” Chad said quickly, but it was too late.

  “I spent ten years at the Abbey of St. Mary.” The abbess was on a roll. “My Latin is impeccable; my French is better. I have translated the Bible from beginning to end.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re a genius.”

  Confusion spread across her face. She pulled her hand from the folds of her robe, revealing a dagger. “I am not a spirit, I assure you.”

  “Smart. I meant smart.” Chad leaned as far away as he could.

  “Smart?” She waved the dagger. “This will smart if you make me use it.”

  He’d forgotten to use the simplest word available. The damn language barrier would get him killed if he wasn’t careful. Usually if he spoke slowly and pretended to be four, the words he chose were recognizable enough for the Middle English villagers to understand him.

  “Clever?” he offered.

  “Clever I can accept.” She lowered the dagger.

  Chad sighed and straightened up. The abbess stared at him. He had to tell her something. He could start with the truth and see where that led. If she didn’t take it well, he could change his story.

  “I didn’t ‘kindle’ the guests. They’re not dead. They’ve been sent back to the future.”

  She did not speak, so he continued.

  “The light you saw was just the release of energy that occurs on arrival and departure.”

  “Where is the future?”

  “The future is not a place, it’s a time.” Her face remained blank so he added, “Where did you think they were from?”

  “I found their accents rather charming and their ideas progressive, but I had not tried to guess where they were from.”

  “Well I’m sure it probably looks like magic to you, but they… we are from the future. Approximately nine hundred years from now some clever chick—I mean woman—invents the ability to travel back in time. The people you met have enjoyed a vacation here, in your village, in what they think of as the past. Do you understand?”

  She let her gaze drift to the horses. Chad began to wonder if she had heard him.

  Her jaw dropped open. “No.”

  “Okay, let’s try it like this. Do you remember what you did yesterday?”

  “Yes. Of course I do. I am not a fool.”

  “Of course not.” Jeez. She was sure touchy about her intelligence. “What would you say if I told you I could send you back to yesterday, where you could stand next to yourself and watch yourself doing all the things you did yesterday?”

  “I would say what a bloody waste of time.”

  “Yes, yes. But the idea that you could physically visit any day from your past. Do you understand the idea?”

  “Why did you put on the executioner’s hood?”

  Chad laughed. “It’s not a hood. It’s more of a sock, really. It covers my eyes so I don’t have the momentary blindness when the MCV fires up.”

  “Em-see-vee? Is this the orb you used in the ceremony?”

  “Yeah. Miniature Chrono Vehicle. MCV. Get it?” He smiled, but she did not.

  The abbess faced him but she wasn’t looking at him. She was far away. And then she was back. “Any day?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  He expected a follow-up question, but she sat quietly. He paid attention to the horses for a while and left her to deal with it. They ambled along the flat road, their hindquarters rising and falling rhythmically, reminding him of Margaret. That was distracting.

  He shook off the image. “Oka
y, now it’s your turn to be honest. Are you going to tell anybody what you saw?”

  “Of course not, Chad.” She smiled at him.

  Damn, that smile was like a weapon. The abbess pulled off her coif and shook out her long black hair. She was gorgeous. If only she wasn’t an abbess, she could have any man she wanted. Chad realized he’d been staring and looked away.

  She touched his arm and said, “I will need one small favor.”

  Oh, here it comes. “What?”

  “I would like you to send me to the past.”

  “No.” Crap. “Ask for something else.”

  “But that is all I desire.” She smiled again.

  He tore his eyes away from her face and found the strength to say, “No. I can’t do it.” But he knew he could do it. It would just be complicated.

  The road took a bend, and Annie’s inn came into view.

  As they passed the inn the abbess said, “Please stop the cart. I have lodging here.”

  Chad reined in the horses. Disappointment washed over him. The urge to change his mind and offer her the trip just to keep her in the seat next to him was overwhelming.

  “Did you know your chin wiggles when you lie?” she said as she climbed down.

  He didn’t know how to answer that.

  As she walked down the short path to the inn, there was a sway in her hips that hadn’t been there before. She turned and caught him staring. There was definitely a gleam in her eye. She said, “I will visit you tomorrow so we may continue our discussion,” and disappeared into the inn.

  Chad frowned. There was no discussion. He’d already said no. There was no way she could convince him to take her back in time. But he did wonder what kind of leverage she would bring to her argument. That smile and that wiggle? She’s an abbess, jackass! She’s not going to seduce you. But he couldn’t help thinking about what she might have hidden under her habit.

  Chapter Nine

  April 26, 1341

  Captain Henri led his guards out of the fog at the forest’s edge. He stopped his horse where the village path met the Roman road. The moist air sapped the heat from his body, and he pulled at the neck of his chain mail to ease the rings away from his chin. Across the valley, the castle seemed to float in a sea of fog, and he pictured the baron’s dogs sleeping on the warm hearthstones of the great hall. The dogs had it better than the men. But here they were, out in the brisk air just after lauds.