The Young City: The Unwritten Books

by James Bow

  “Rosemary!”

  She picked herself up, rubbing her barked palms. “I’m okay,” she shouted, stopping Peter from jumping in after her. “Just a little winded, that’s all. And standing in this stupid sewer again.”

  “Let me help you out!” He scrambled for the edge.

  “Wait, something’s different.” She peered around in the gloom. “I’m standing in this water. It’s barely knee deep!” She stood in the centre of the stream and held out both arms. A step to her left and another to her right allowed her to touch slimy bricks on either side. “It’s narrower. Round, too, like a pipe.”

  “Where did all that extra water come from?”

  “I’ll check.” Holding on to the side, she crept forward. The roar was as loud as ever but, as she listened, it seemed to intensify in front of her. Then the wall turned sharply away and the floor deepened. The current tugged her sideways.

  “It’s a junction!” She struggled back. “The river branches! I’m standing in a smaller stream!”

  “Can you come out now?”

  “No, come in with me!”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Look, a smaller stream means we’re closer to the source — closer to an exit!” She glared at his silhouette. “We have to try! Take my hands.”

  Catching her hands, he jumped in. “I hope you’re right.”

  “So do I.”

  Hand in hand, they sloshed upstream. The walls of the cavern converged above them. The pipe walls wrapped over them. Their splashes echoed. Peter reached for a ceiling and found it by standing on tiptoe.

  “How’s the claustrophobia?” he asked.

  “Chugging merrily along.”

  They sloshed forward, stopping occasionally for Peter to reach up and check for manhole shafts and other ways out. Then, as they felt the pipe curving before them, Rosemary whirled around. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “That splashing sound.”

  “Probably water.”

  She smacked his shoulder. “Quiet! There it is again.”

  “Rosemary, don’t spook yourself.”

  “I swear, something’s following us!”

  “Like what?” he snorted. “Crocodiles?” Then he heard it, too: a squeal, amplified by the pipe, then a sound like a stone thrown into a lake. “Okay ... Maybe a rat, but that’s nothing to be alarmed about.”

  There were more echoing squeals. Then came a sound like a river reversing its flow. They became aware of a phosphor glow. Had it always been there, or was it creeping up the tunnel after them? Waves lapped at their knees.

  In the growing light, Peter and Rosemary glanced at each other, turned, and struggled upstream.

  As they stumbled and splashed, they saw a new light grow ahead of them, warm and yellow. They rushed forward, rounded a turn, and were suddenly outside. Sunlight sent them staggering, hands over their eyes, back toward the exit they’d emerged from. They leaned on a brick wall, the supernatural glow all but forgotten, taking deep gulps of the sweet air.

  “I never knew Toronto air could smell this good,” wheezed Rosemary.

  Peter climbed over the wall and helped her onto a muddy slope. They flopped onto their backs and stared at the sky.

  They had emerged from a round, brick culvert, tall as a door. Its metal gate lay on the opposite embankment. The ditch snaked away, built of newer bricks, and square. The sky above them was blue and grey, with black clouds rolling away. The air smelled of rain. “No wonder the water was so rough,” said Rosemary. “We had a summer thunderstorm.”

  “Hmm?” He looked up. “Rosemary, after all that, how can you still have your glasses?”

  “Sports strap.” She fingered a black elastic band stretching behind her ear and beneath her hair. “Perfect for my active lifestyle.” Then she looked down. “Oh my! Look at us.”

  They were grey with mud, their clothes matted and clinging, their hair a disaster. Both carried the distinctive odour of the sewer.

  Peter chuckled. “Theo’s shower is going to get quite a workout.”

  “Shower? This dirt needs at least an hour’s soak in the tub!”

  “Oh, no!” said Peter. “You’re not hogging the tub while I stink up Theo’s apartment! I’ll wrestle you for it!”

  Rosemary giggled. “Maybe we can share.”

  He blinked at her. “You sure like teasing your brother.”

  “First time I’ve had ammunition.”

  He laughed and squeezed her hand. “I love you, Rosemary.”

  She squeezed back, and then they stared at each other, true relief sinking in. They embraced, and held on tight.

  “I love you too,” said Rosemary. She kissed his matted hair, then wrinkled her nose at the smell. She patted his shoulder. “Let’s find out where we are.”

  They got to their feet. Peter peered over the rim of the embankment. “It’s probably the university. Theo’s apartment is just south of it.”

  “It’s awfully quiet.” Rosemary trudged up the slope.

  Peter nodded to a stone building, all turrets and pointed windows, facing onto a large green. “It’s the university, all right. I think that’s King’s College.”

  But Rosemary was looking back across the culvert. She’d turned pale. “Peter?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She pointed. “The city’s gone.”

  He whirled around. “What?”

  “The buildings have disappeared! It’s all gone! Peter, what happened to Toronto?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE YOUNG CITY

  Peter looked from Rosemary to the horizon and back again. “It couldn’t have.”

  “It has!” Rosemary jumped to see if her view wasn’t blocked by some rise. “Where’s the CN Tower? Where are the skyscrapers?” She turned and stared at the turreted building across its wide green. “Peter, if this is the university, half of the buildings are missing!” She stared at Peter in horror.

  He raised his hands. “No. There has to be some mistake. Maybe we got turned around. Maybe ....” He stopped and stared. Across a dying wetland, he could see a city: of gingerbread houses and church spires, like an old postcard or a hand-tinted photograph.

  He stumbled back. Rosemary caught him.

  “Who’s there?”

  The bellowing voice made them dive for cover. As they peered over the rim of the muddy embankment, Rosemary noticed that they were in the middle of a deserted construction site. Large timbers were piled by huge stones and mounds of moved earth. A temporary wooden wall, made of planks, not plywood, hoarded everything inside.

  Standing in the middle was a tall, stout man. Though stooped by time, he looked wary and dangerous as a wolf. He had a grizzled beard and fierce eyes. He held a plank like a club.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted again. “Thieves? Vandals? If I catch you, you’ll regret it, you young ruffians!” He stalked toward the back of the site, crouching low.

  “Where do we go?” whispered Peter.

  “The front gate’s open.” She gripped his hand. “Let’s go!”

  They charged over the embankment and ran for the gate.

  “There you are!” They heard the thump and splash of the watchman in pursuit. He clambered over a pile of timbers and leapt into their path, arms raised and ready to fight. His eyes widened at the sight of Rosemary in her jeans and muddy halter top. “A w-woman?”

  She ploughed into him, sprawling him in the mud. Peter ducked around him. The watchman struggled to his feet and followed, but only to the gate. Peter and Rosemary kept running until his shouts faded in the distance. Then they stopped and caught their breath.

  “You okay?” Peter gasped.

  “Yeah,” Rosemary wheezed. “Did you see the clothes he was wearing?” She stopped short. “We’re standing on a wooden sidewalk ... by a dirt road. What is this, the wild west?”

  The narrow, gabled row houses loomed on either side of them. The silence echoed. Peter shivered. “I don’t think we’re in To
ronto anymore.”

  Then bells started ringing.

  They peeled in all directions, shattering the silence, echoing off of brick and hill. Down the street, a squat church opened its Gothic doors and people streamed out. Men put on hats, women gathered up handfuls of skirts to descend the steps.

  Rosemary fingered the tie of her halter top. The breeze chilled her bare back. Without a word, they turned and walked away as quickly as they could.

  The bells stopped ringing, their echoes replaced by the new sounds of the city. Carriages rattled after hoofbeats, splashing and sucking the muddy roads. Hard soles clopped on the wooden sidewalks as crowds thronged like another form of rush hour. There was flannel and taffeta everywhere, lace and gingham. The underdressed teenagers hunched forward, willing themselves invisible. It didn’t work.

  Behind them, an old lady cried out, “Oh my goodness, that girl is naked!”

  Rosemary flushed.

  Heads turned. People stared.

  “Vagrants!” somebody else called. “Street urchins!”

  “They’re filthy!”

  Peter took a deep breath. “We’d better get off this street.” He stepped off the sidewalk.

  “Peter, look out!”

  Horses whinnied and veered. Peter staggered back, but the wheel of a passing carriage clipped his leg and sent him sprawling. He hit his head on the wooden sidewalk and lay dazed.

  “Peter!” Rosemary knelt by him. “Are you ...”

  He moaned and rubbed his head. “I don’t believe it. Never been hit by a car in my life, but the first horse and buggy comes along and whammo!”

  Rosemary laughed nervously.

  “Are you hurt?”

  A young woman knelt beside them, her dark hair drawn back in a severe bun, but her face open and warm. She wore a plain cotton dress that didn’t match her finer hat and gloves. She pulled Peter into a sitting position and gave his head a quick but thorough glance. “You are not bleeding.” She touched the back of his head and he let out a yowl. “But you are going to have a bump, I’m afraid. How do you feel?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He winced. “A little stunned.”

  “Are you dizzy?” asked Rosemary. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two,” said Peter.

  The woman gave Rosemary a sharp glance, but returned her attention to Peter. “No, do not stand up yet. Get your breath back into you, first.”

  The crowd gave Peter and Rosemary a wide berth, creating a bottleneck on the sidewalk.

  “Why don’t you leave those two alone?” snapped a man in fine clothes. “They should have been watching where they were going!”

  The woman’s nostrils flared. “‘Whatsoever you do unto the least of my people, you do unto me!’ Did you not pay attention to today’s sermon?” The man dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  As she turned back to Peter and helped him stand, she added, “You should have watched where you were going. You walked right into that carriage’s path!”

  “We’ll be more careful next time,” said Rosemary. “Thank you for helping us.”

  “You are most welcome. My name is Faith —”

  “Get a move on!” shouted a man with a tall black hat. “We don’t want your kind around here!”

  “Scandalous that a woman should be seen like that in public!” said a middle-aged woman. “And on the Lord’s Day, too!”

  “I’ve a good mind to call the constabulary!”

  Rosemary flinched. The last thing they needed right now was police.

  Faith glared at the crowd. “Is this how you would treat people in need? What does it say about us that we should live so prosperously while such poverty exists?”

  Peter leaned toward Rosemary. “What’s with this woman’s accent? She sounds almost British. Everybody sounds British.”

  Rosemary gripped his hand. A crowd had gathered, staring in bemusement at the underdressed couple and the dark-haired young woman who railed at passersby.

  Then came the sound of running feet. “Police! Let us through!” The crowd parted, and two policemen strode in.

  They wore dark blue coats with brass buttons, and bobby hats instead of caps. They smacked truncheons on their palms. Neither looked in the mood for a long explanation.

  Rosemary tightened her grip on Peter’s hand. “Let’s get out of here!”

  He stared at the constables. Faith was already remonstrating with them. “Run? But —”

  Rosemary yanked him across the street.

  “Hey! Stop!” The policeman brushed past Faith, leaving her staring after the couple, hands on her hips.

  Rosemary and Peter slogged between horse and carriage, and then jumped onto the other sidewalk. They darted between people too startled to stop them, but the policemen, blowing their whistles with every breath, were hot on their trail.

  “We have to hide!” Rosemary puffed.

  “Where?”

  They splashed across another muddy street and onto another wooden sidewalk. The crowds started to thin out, leaving the constables a clear line to follow them.

  “Alleyway,” Rosemary gasped.

  They turned a corner, and were on a street lined with stores. The crowds were all but gone now, and all the stores were closed. There was a sign at the corner, fixed to one of the buildings. Peter stopped and stared.

  “Yonge Street?” he exclaimed. “But it can’t —”

  Rosemary yanked him back into a run. “Come on!”

  They dashed across the street, jumping over two sets of tracks running up the middle. They leapt across the sidewalk and into the sanctuary between two brick buildings.

  The alley smelled of wet brick and rot. The walls towered two storeys above them and stretched to the next street. The nearest cover was a dark doorway, hidden by a pile of abandoned crates. They knelt on the drenched stones and held their breath.

  They heard the approaching swift footfalls, hard soles on wood. There was a blur of blue past the alleyway, then the footfalls faded into the distance.

  When silence came, Rosemary flopped onto the doorstep. “Okay, take stock. Where are we?”

  Peter sat beside her. “Well, we fall down a hole, trek through an underground tunnel, and come out into this crazy place. Did you pass any rabbits running late?”

  Rosemary let out a terse laugh. “We didn’t walk too far, so we’re still in Toronto. We shouldn’t be too far from Theo’s apartment, in fact.”

  Peter took a deep breath. “We’ve run for blocks. Theo’s apartment was right downtown. We should have seen the skyline by now.”

  “Where do you think we are?”

  He shrugged, but didn’t meet her eye. “I just passed a sign that said Yonge Street.”

  “So?”

  “I know Yonge Street. It’s the main street of Toronto. It doesn’t look a thing like this.”

  “Peter ...”

  “What if the reason we haven’t seen the skyline is because it hasn’t been built ... yet?”

  She stared at him. “No way. It’s not time travel. That’s impossible.”

  Peter reached behind the crates and smoothed out a wet and crumpled sheet of newsprint. He pointed to the banner. “The Globe. August 28, 1884. What do you say to that?”

  “That paper can’t be from 1884! It hasn’t yellowed —”

  “It wouldn’t have yellowed if we were really in 1884 now, would it?”

  She glared at him. “It’s not time travel!”

  He sighed. “Okay. Alternative theories: A historical film shoot.”

  Rosemary clapped her hands. “That’s it! That would explain the clothes!”

  “And why half the city is missing.”

  Rosemary drooped.

  He looked at her slumped shoulders. “We could be inside a studio, I suppose,” he offered.

  Rosemary looked at the sky. “If so, that’s one heck of a matte painting.” She hugged her knees. “It’s not a studio, is it?”

  “No.”

 
“Oh God, Peter. What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll go back,” said Peter.

  “How? The police are looking for us, we stick out like sore thumbs, and we just about got stoned to death!”

  “We’ll sneak back,” said Peter. “We’ll wait for night.”

  “It’s going to get cold! It wasn’t nearly this cold back at Theo’s place! We’re going to need ropes and ... and flashlights!”

  “I got bad news for you there.”

  She thumped his shoulder. “Be serious! What are we going to do?”

  “Well ...” He pursed his lips. “It’s going to take time.”

  She stared at him. “We can’t stay here. Theo would go out of his mind!”

  “I don’t think Theo knows we’ve gone yet.”

  She blinked. He went on. “Think about it. We were in that cavern for how long? Thirty minutes? Long enough for Theo to notice we were gone. But if we’ve fallen through a time portal, then the rules are all out the window. Maybe only a second has passed on Theo’s side. Theo may not even have heard the fall yet.”

  “You mean, we’re on our own.” Her voice was very small. She shivered. Peter reached out and held her close. She clung to him, and pressed her face into his shoulder. After a moment she pushed him away, clearing her nose with a sniff. “So, we’re on our own. Fine. Let’s get to work. We need lights. Torches or something. And climbing equipment.”

  Peter drew himself up. “We’ll need food, first,” he said. “And shelter. And new clothes. And a bath. We aren’t going to get very far looking the way we do.”

  “So, we find work.”

  He frowned. “How are we going to find work looking like we’ve rolled on these streets?”

  “Then the first thing we do is beg for clothes, or beg for money to buy clothes.”

  “Right,” he said. “You lead the way.”

  They crept to the end of the alleyway and peered out at the stores. The mud-and-plank street stretched away on either side of them, with two tracks in the middle but no streetcars in sight. No overhead wires, either. Shops lined the sidewalks, their display windows dark and curtained.