“Quite frankly,” she stated, when I asked how she felt, “I’m getting worse. I don’t know what’s wrong. Even my Talisman seems strange to me.” She kinda laughed at that. “But then, everything seems strange. I’m getting old, at last. Well past eighty-five.”
The expression on my face must have revealed my doubt concerning that number.
“Bragging?” I teased, directing her upstairs to her bedroom.
“Oh, no! Not that.” She stumbled a few steps up the stairs, then added: “But so I’m a bit older. I’ll admit that. Hell, when a gal turns fifty she wonders. She’s still okay. Maybe in her prime. But by sixty…things change. Don’t you know? And the age is dripping away at your flesh, bones. But at seventy you are getting to the point where you just aren’t a young kid. You’re what most people think of as old. By eighty, that’s ancient. I simply won’t admit to being…anything different. I mean…well…beyond that. Like they say: a gentleman doesn’t ask a lady her age. Even if she’s past her eighth decade!”
“Embarrassed? Shy? Mysterious?” I offered with a flash of a grin.
“No! Proud! To be truthful. But…to be frank, I don’t rightly know how old for certain. I stopped counting some time back, of course. That’s for sure. You get to the point where you don’t want no more birthdays and simply ignore them as fast as they come flashing by! And I don’t remember the year I was born. I simply won’t remember that! But my body doesn’t feel right. That much I can tell you. I kinda stagger, too. Something new. I don’t like that!”
Suddenly all the theories about the Talisman protecting us, offering a kind of immortality, seemed to shatter. I felt almost a perverse sense of relief.
She said, as we went into her bedroom: “Take a look at my pet Talisman…it is growing terribly big! Isn’t it?”
I looked at her bed stand. The Talisman did look grossly larger than I remembered, and a very deep red in color. Almost as if it were embarrassed
I said nothing and gave her a full examination. Before I left, though, she asked, “Am I going mad? Tell me, Doc. Is my Talisman changing?”
I laughed a bit nervously. “They’re always changing some, now, aren’t they?”
She nodded, tight-lipped. “I guess so. But I have this feeling, Doc. I remember how Mr. Smith said we’d have eighty or more plus years of good health, remember that?”
I nodded.
“And I have had that, now haven’t I?” She shrugged. “Okay, past my nineties…maybe….”
I assured her she had, and probably would continue to.
“Maybe the promise has been kept for me…and I’m dying.”
I tried to scoff at that. “Now why would you say such a thing?
“Just how it all adds up, if you ask me. Maybe our Mr. Smith was from the Man upstairs? Or from the man below. Or from someplace else.”
“Someplace else?”
“Sure, why not? We’re living in the space age. Cablevision and all that! The TV is just filled with all that spacey stuff. Them there scientist folk are talking about travel to other worlds, and of alien beings on other planets. To other stars, from other galaxies.”
“You’ve been watching too much television!” I scolded.
“I’ve been watching…a lot more than television! And I kinda think you almost believe me!” She winked, smiling.
“I believe you are a bit mad, to get quite blunt about it!” I stated a bit too honestly.
“Maybe. Maybe. But I see what I’ve seen. And I tell you I don’t have much more time. Mr. Smith made his promises—and they’ve been kept. Good health, and my four score plus years...what more could a woman my age want? I’ve had a good life. And the last years have been the best! So, there!”
“But why would...Mr. Smith want to—” I broke off as she shook her head from side to side.
“If you can answer that one, then you’d understand everything that happened since the Talisman arrived. But you won’t believe in the supernatural, and you won’t accept any thought of alien creatures from another world, and—”
“Okay, okay,” I kidded, throwing my hands up in the air. “I believe. I believe, if you want me to. But you just get well—and we can talk about it all then.”
“And you won’t change my mind none about it, either,” she stated with finality. “The Talisman is the work of the Devil, or a gift from Heaven, or from another place, or....”
“And motive?” I couldn’t help asking. “Explain why.”
“Motive be damned!”
“Well, now, since you’ve settled all that, you just take it easy from now on. And you’ll be just fine,” I assured her.
“I don’t think so,” was her stubborn reply. “I do kinda think I’ve had my full run.”
It was the last time I saw her alive. She was never, though, in much pain. Henny Jones, who had been checking in on her, called me over to her home. He found her in bed, dead. I was pulling the sheet over her body when I heard a sound coming from across the hall.
A cold chill rushed over me. She had no pets. My eyes went to the nightstand. The Talisman wasn’t there. I don’t know what terrified me about that, but I felt unreasonable fear choke in around my throat.
I quickly crossed the hall, entering the dimly-lit sewing room. It took a few seconds to discover where the sound was coming from. There, just in front of the sewing basket, a sad cry moaned. I almost immediately saw the small naked baby, features shriveled like all newborns, a strange, wide-eyed, haunting, anguished expression in its deep black eyes. It looked pointedly in my direction.
The intense gaze unnerved me. I seemed to feel a tugging at the base of my brain, at the very center of my thought, a quick, pulsing terror.
Ms. Black was an old maid, in every meaning of the word! She didn’t have a lover. Even if she had, it was out of the question to consider that she could have given birth to a child. And concealing any such pregnancy from the only doctor around was impossible. But where had it come from? Whatever the explanation for the newborn baby lying there, it had to be logical.
But whose logic? I wondered, picking up the infant.
Was it some kind of monster, some being from another world? Did it have something to do with the Talisman?
I wanted to put the baby down, but couldn’t. I was suddenly searching through the house, everywhere, clutching the child tightly to me.
I did not find Ms. Black’s Talisman. I did find a blanket to wrap the baby in. Even while doing all this I kept feeling an irrational impulse to smash the baby’s head against the wall, as if it were some kind of terrible alien creature that must be killed. And at the same time felt an overwhelming urge to protect it from any and all harm.
I looked into the child’s eyes. It was so helpless, looking up at me with such longingly jet-black eyes, so much like Mr. Smith’s. Such a sight would pique the protective instincts of a demon dragon from the very depths of Hell.
“Where’d you come from?” I muttered, desperately needing to hear a human voice. “Where?”
I was already thinking: It doesn’t matter where you came from. You’re a baby…we never had one of our own.
It wasn’t a rational thought. But I didn’t have time to think things out. Suddenly the smell of smoke turned my attention to another danger.
Everything blurred, then. I moved automatically through a kind of vague fiery hell. Nothing made much sense—nor did I expect to find acceptable answers.
Suddenly I was out on the street. I saw the house become totally enveloped in violent flame. It was an old, wood-framed building. The white-hot fire turned at the edges into a strange blue-green, consuming the building in seconds. Then it flashed out of existence, touching none of the vegetation that had surrounded the house.
I could hardly believe my senses.
The baby drew my attention back to its bundled form. It was very softly cooing. Those eyes, now so cool black, gazed powerfully up into mine.
A thought leaped at me: the promise was kept; she lived to be
near 100! And had been happy!
It “felt” as if the baby had telepathed that message right into my brain! A shiver surged through me as I rushed home. Milly said nothing after I explained what had happened. She never asked any questions concerning the child. Nobody in the community offered any questions, either, when we kept the child.
They aren’t all that sophisticated around here, but television has made its inroads. Even Ms. Black’s theories began to almost sound reasonable. For several months I was still able to hold on to my weakening argument that it could all be explained by coincidence. Then a very logical, though a bit fantastic, theory began to form in my mind.
Consider: what better way for an alien species to invade a new planet that was already overpopulated by its own intelligent life forms? Such beings would need to be protected, even nourished—even loved. Perhaps the Talisman is some kind of embryo that needs to feed on the life-force of animal life. Does the embryo turn into what looks, acts, and seems to be a human baby upon our death at old age?
I wanted to totally reject such an idea as being impossible. I kept finding ways to avoid believing we’ve been invaded by alien beings from another world or dimension. But I kept remembering the thought that was thrust into my mind outside Ms. Black’s home: the promise was kept. She lived to be near 100! And had been happy!
Then a short time ago, something happened that left no more room for disbelief.
Mr. Winters, at 103, died. The Talisman was missing; a baby was there in the house. His wife got out with the child just in time to escape the fire that burned their home to the ground.
We all wait for the next death and child. A home is being built to raise the children in one place, together.
It doesn’t matter where the Talisman originated, or what the children really are. What difference does it really make? Not one of us is willing to do anything to change matters.
After all, we are assured of as much as 100 vigorous years. None of us want to lose that. We know that to kill our Talismans would be to kill ourselves. Everybody clings and lingers to life. At all cost! And here we had a promise that was kept! Why should we give that up?
And the children are really so lovely, intelligent, and deeply affectionate.
Who could turn down that kind of a deal?
SAVING JANE AUSTEN, by Robert Reginald
Letter #1: Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen
Paragon Street, Bath
Thursday 14-Friday 15 May 1801
My dearest Cassandra,
My adventures since I wrote last, have not been very numerous, but such as they are, they are much at your service.—My Uncle & I took our long-plann’d walk to the Cassoon before tea. It lies just off the Combhay Rd outside Bath. Very little of Mr Weldon’s water raising machine now remains to be seen, other than the basin itself, & that is very plain. But I thought it best to examine everything in detail, having notic’d a curious black mark there, & so I took myself into the hole that had been dug into the side of the hill. My Uncle has quite got the better of his lameness, but decided not to chance a further injury, & so remain’d near the road. It would have amus’d you to see my climbing down the sixty or seventy feet to the bottom. My foot slipp’d whilst I was exploring the basin, & I fear I twisted the ankle. Fortuitously, a gentleman was coming the opposite way down the road, & my Uncle prevail’d upon him to assist me. His name is Mr Jacob Lawson, & he is visiting England from the Providence Plantations in the Americas, which he says lie somewhat northeast of the City of New York. Afterwards we spoke a little while whilst he examin’d my foot for injury. He is an easy talking, pleasantish young Man, tho’ not especially handsome, being mark’d about the face with the pox. He carries himself very well, however, & I think you would like him....
Log Entry #1: Jake Lawson
As planned, I downtemped to 5:00 a.m. local time on 15 May 1801, the target being the middle of the basin of Weldon’s abandoned caisson outside of Bath, England, the isolated site mentioned in Austen’s letter. Shorter and Long were already waiting there with clothing and transportation. My arrival went unobserved, as did Ms. Wardon’s jump several minutes later. We conducted a thorough search of the area with our infrared scanners, but located no one.
Our carriage took us to the prearranged quarters in Green Park. There we again reviewed the mission parameters in the safe room. Team Leader Shorter emphasized the necessity of making regular field reports, and of closely maintaining our assumed identities. I am now the wealthy American aristocrat, Jacob Lawson, Esq., a native of Rhode Island, and Patricia Wardon has become my sister and ward, Miss Patsy Lawson.
Despite our extensive training, our clothes still seem somewhat stiff and formal to me, as does the language and culture we must now employ. Still, most of the natives here will interpret any gaffes on our part as deriving from cultural or language differences; after all, we’re semi-foreigners. If they only knew how much!
Log Entry #2: Patricia Wardon
This is the fourth tempstep I’ve made, and I can never quite get used to arriving downtime with nary a stitch in place. I know the engineers have explained the scientific reasons why this must be so, something about biostatic energy not being transferable to inert objects, but if that’s the case, why don’t we also lose our teeth, nails, and hair at the same time? I’ve never gotten a straight answer to that one! At any rate, the English countryside in the wee hours of the morning is decidedly cold, even in late spring, and I was glad to find our two helpmates ready and able to assist us.
Unlike Jake Lawson, I really enjoy dressing up in the fashions of other eras, and the pre-Regency period clothing is so different in style and fit from our period that it’s always a challenge for a big-busted girl. A pleasant challenge, I might add. Shorter and Long will become our servants, Rangel our coachman, and Ewbank the footman. The other servants will be hired from the local populace, as we need them.
Log Entry #3: Jake Lawson
I’ve now made contact with the target subject. I headed toward the Combhay Road after Long reported that Austen and her uncle had started on their slow walk to the “Cassoon” (as they call it) or caisson. All of Jane’s usual haunts have been bugged. I was strolling back toward town when James Leigh Parrot, Austen’s uncle, buttonholed me and requested my assistance. It seems that his niece, as we already knew, had sprained her ankle slightly at the bottom of Weldon’s Hill. I was only too happy to assist.
Austen is plainer than I expected, a bit of a mouse, really, with narrow, pursed lips, and a slight frame which is not particularly complimented by gowns that emphasize the bodice, standard wear for the period. She also seems somewhat shy and withdrawn, but perhaps that’s just the nature of the beast. I find her in no way distinctive. Where’s the spark of creativity and intelligence that we were led to expect?
Letter #2: Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen
Paragon, Bath
Saturday 16-Monday 18 May 1801
My dear Cassandra,
...The gentleman of whom I spoke yesterday, Mr Lawson, call’d upon us this morning, & presented his very good wishes for my recovery. I now think him quite charming. He has read many of the same books as you, & I am certain you will enjoy his company as much as I, when you come here in a fortnight. He intends to remain in Bath for the better part of the next month. My complaint is now very minor, & my ankle should be fit again by the time you arrive here....
Log Entry #4: Jake Lawson
I remain distinctly unimpressed by this lady writer. I keep expecting flashes of brilliance, and instead all I get are rather mundane comments about the weather and polite society. Is this twenty-five-year-old woman really the individual who had written, by this stage in her life, the as yet unpublished Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility? I just can’t believe it.
I mentioned to her several of the better-known books of the period, just to spur her interest, and she hadn’t read a one. “My sister Cassandra has a prevailing interest...,” she would say, in this, that,
or the other. I didn’t want to talk about Miss C., who is supposed to join Jane at Bath around the first of June, but was repeatedly forced by the author back to the topic. “Plain Jane,” as she is so aptly named, is so self-effacing as to display almost no personality of her own. What a letdown!
Later
Shorter tells me that I should curb my impatience, lest it slop over inadvertently into my public persona. “Shorter” is better, I guess!
Letter #3: Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen
No 1, Paragon, Bath
Saturday 16-Monday 18 May 1801
...My ankle is really very much improved today. This afternoon I walked with my uncle by the Canal, & there met Mr Lawson coming in the opposite direction, together with a fashionable young lady whom he introduced to us as his younger sister, Miss Patsy. She is very presentable, with a long nose & wide mouth & much exposed bosom, but her manner of speaking seems somewhat halting & even odd. I invited her to call upon us at Paragon on Tuesday....
Log Entry #5: Patricia Wardon
I finally met Jane Austen this afternoon. What an exhilarating experience! This petite young woman, looking somewhat older than her years, had obviously already sized up Jake and dismissed him as a nonentity. We had a perfectly delightful conversation, and I found her insights into the local society to be both pithy and extremely penetrating. I’m afraid poor Jake was quite put out by my hogging the conversation.
In my excitement I slipped out of character a couple of times, I’m afraid. I used the word interface as a verb, which was just not done during this era, and failed to catch a passing reference to Cumberland, thinking it the county rather than the Prince of Wales’s younger brother, Prince Ernest Augustus, who had recently been ennobled by his father, King George III. My response left my audience somewhat befuddled, I fear. I hope she doesn’t think me too strange....
Letter #4: Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen
Once Upon a Future Page 13