by M. S. Parker
“Then tell me why I won’t take up arms and fight the rebels as my father, my fiancée, and our friends seem to think I should?” he asked, his tone matter-of-fact. “If my father was young enough, he would have enlisted at the first sign of trouble.” He paused and then added, “I am supposed to be my father’s son.”
I shook my head before he even finished the sentence. He was nothing like his father. I knew, in the long run, even if he decided to do nothing, it would save him the heartache of having to leave his home with the majority of the other Loyalists. He could continue here, live out the remainder of his life in peace, an Englishman who had stood on the sidelines, supporting neither side. There was nothing wrong with that.
I supposed, to most people, that was the wisest course of action. It wasn't like everyone in my time enlisted, not even in wartime. I understood that it had to be a personal choice, but for me and my family, there'd only ever been one choice.
We fought.
We might not have always understood our orders, and there were times we might not have agreed with the wars we fought, but we knew that we had to take the bad along with the good. Someone had to stand for freedom and protection, and my family was among those who did it.
How could I tell Gracen that he should remain neutral when I knew that my family, in the same situation, would fight? But how could I ask him to fight for any cause he didn't believe in, regardless of what I knew about the future?
And I knew that I had to admit that my need to keep him away from the fighting had little to do with the knowledge of the war’s outcome and more to do with how I felt about him. I couldn’t bear to think about Gracen in the battlefield, musket in hand, firing at the enemy as he and the other soldiers stood in perfect lines begging to be killed. I didn't doubt for a moment that he'd only be involved with the traditional form of battle tactics rather than the more covert attacks that some of the American forces would use.
“You’ll be killed,” I said, my voice faltering as I spoke.
He nodded. “Despite what Clara says, I know that's a possibility.” His voice turned bitter. “I can't say that I think my father would be too bothered by it. His only son dying to quench the uprising. Quite an honor.”
“That’s not funny,” I snapped.
“That was hardly my intention.” He shrugged. “It’s a bit sad, actually.”
It was strange, how well I could read him, even after such a short acquaintance. His expression was impassive, but I knew he was thinking, that he was trying to figure out what to do, which course of action would allow him to maintain his principles while not completely alienating his father...or being considered a traitor by everyone he knew and loved.
“Join the colonists.”
So...apparently, my brain decided that blurting out those three words to the son of a devout Loyalist was a good idea.
Gracen's head snapped up, his eyes wide. “What?”
No going back now.
“If you feel that you must fight, then join the colonists,” I repeated.
“Are you absolutely mad?” His voice rose as his face flushed.
I quickly looked over my shoulder even though the door was closed. This wasn't a conversation I wanted anyone to overhear.
He understood the gesture and immediately lowered his voice. “Declining to join the British Army is one thing, but fighting with the colonists?” he hissed. “Not only is there the same danger associated with war but to do so will most likely cost my family everything. I could be tried as a traitor, my family name disgraced.”
I said the only thing I could think of. “The one thing I can assure you is that your family name will not be disgraced.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
“I have a feeling,” I lied.
“A feeling!” He barked a bitter laugh as he shook his head. “My father has a feeling. Clara has a feeling, and now you do too.” His voice was harsh as he continued, “Let me tell you a thing or two about feelings, Honor Daviot. They are rarely reliable.”
He turned away from me before I could answer and rubbed the back of his neck. I hated myself for the look on his face, but I couldn't bring myself to regret choosing to warn him.
“I cannot understand why you would make this suggestion,” he said.
“My father always told me that you should fight for what you believe is right,” I said. “Can you honestly tell me that you believe the things the Crown has been doing to the colonies is right?”
“It isn't my place to even argue this.” His voice rose again.
“Why the hell not?” I asked, my patience wearing thin. “You know the difference between right and wrong. If you thought the Crown was in the right, you wouldn’t even be conflicted about this. You'd have picked up your gun the day the colonists threw tea into the harbor.”
He stared at me for a moment before stammering, “H-how dare you even presume to know what I think?”
“I might not have known you for long, Gracen, but I know honorable men,” I argued, “and you are an honorable man. No one with your family's history of loyalty to the Crown would be standing on the sidelines unable to decide what he truly believed if there was no doubt. You might have conflicting loyalties, but it’s not between the British and the colonists. It's between your father and what you think is right.”
“Stop it.” He shook his head. “Stop talking this instant!”
I couldn't, though, not when I didn't know if I'd get another chance to try to convince him.”
“You know I'm right, Gracen,” I pressed. “You can't fool me–”
“I said enough!” His voice boomed through the study, and for a moment, he sounded eerily like his father.
“No!” I snapped back. I wouldn’t let this go. I couldn't. “Your best chance is with the colonists.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why would I join a lost cause?”
“You don't believe that.”
“I must!”
“Why?” I asked. “Because your father says so?”
Gracen opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. He glowered down at me, his face livid. I waited, knowing that this time, holding my tongue was the best option. He had to think about what I said, decide for himself if it was indeed his father who was holding him back rather than his own beliefs. After nearly half a minute, he sighed heavily and sank into the chair beside the bookcase.
“I can't do it,” he said slowly. “Even if it were the right thing to do, I cannot.” He looked up at me, and I could almost see the defeat in his eyes. “I will not disgrace my family. After my wedding, I will enlist in the British Army.”
I leaned down and grasped his hand, trying not to let him read the amount of panic flooding through my body. He couldn't do that. I had to find some way to stop him. He looked down at my hands but didn't pull his away.
“You can't do it. It's a terrible mistake.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I can't explain it, Gracen,” I said, frustrated. “Just trust me that it's a bad idea.”
“I need more than something you feel, Honor.” His eyes met mine, as if he was searching for something. I just didn't know what.
I gave him the only excuse I could think of. “What about Clara?” I asked. “Do you really want to leave her a widow?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don't believe that you care very much for Clara.”
I refused to dignify that with an answer. Mostly because I had no clue how to answer it.
I tried to stand, but this time, he grabbed my hand.
“Why, Honor? Talk to me.”
The urge to tell him everything was overwhelming. I told myself it was because I was tired of pretending, tired of having to constantly be on my guard. It had nothing to do with the fact that I wanted to be honest with Gracen, that I didn't want to lie to him anymore.
I shook my head, fighting back the tears that burned in my eyes. “I'm sorry, I can't.”
That searching look again. “You
can't, or you won't?”
“Gracen, please, let me go.”
“I need an answer.” His voice was soft, and it made my stomach twist.
I took a step back, taking my hands with me.
“Why do you want me to join the colonists?” He stood again.
I shook my head. “Gracen, I'm sorry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
I turned and started for the door.
“Honor!”
I didn't know if it was the desperation in his voice or the fact that it was killing me to hold it in, but I blurted out the essential truth that I needed him to know.
“The British lose the war!”
Oh, shit.
19
“I really hate it when you do that.”
Wilkins' voice cut through my thoughts and my head snapped up in surprise. Until that moment, I thought I was alone. The bastard had a way of creeping up without making a sound. It was one of the reasons why I was happy he was on my side. That, and the fact that I knew he'd always have my back.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, moving to one side of the broken down wall I was sitting on so that he could sit next to me.
We were in a small town just outside Baghdad, one that had definitely seen better days. The war had taken down most of the buildings, the streets so filled with rubble that barely any space was left for our SUVs to move about freely. If a quick escape was ever needed here, we'd be in trouble.
There were only two dozen people or so in the streets, and we knew most of them. We actually knew most of the people in the town, and many of them were friendly toward us. It was an oasis of sorts for us. A place where we didn't have to be quite on edge.
Wilkins sat down beside me, looking out at where Rogers was playing a friendly game of soccer with a few of the younger local boys. The big man's burly figure seemed to dwarf them all, but size clearly didn't intimidate them. They hollered and yelled at him as they played, all of them grinning like fools.
“You have this look you get when you're thinking about home,” Wilkins said as he pulled out an energy bar and took a bite. He offered it to me, but I quickly shook my head. I was rarely hungry when in the field.
“Is that so?”
He chuckled as he chewed. “I've known you for far too long, Daviot,” he said with a full mouth, and I instinctively smacked his shoulder.
It was my way of reminding him to keep his trap shut when eating, but it rarely ever did anything more than encourage him to do it more often.
“Is it Bruce?” Wilkins asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
I shook my head no. “Parents,” I said. “I miss them. I haven't called my father in a while, and the last time we spoke, he sounded terrible.”
Wilkins took another bite from his energy bar, a thoughtful expression on his face. Rogers waved at us to join him, but Wilkins simply gave him the finger, forcing the big man to laugh out loud. Wilkins rarely moved around unless absolutely necessary, something Rogers and I never failed to tease him about.
“You worry too much,” Wilkins said. “It's like you're deliberately carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders when no one's asking you to.”
“I can't help it,” I replied with a scowl.
“Sure you can. You're not responsible for everything.”
“That shouldn't stop me from calling home regularly.”
“Your dad's an army man, Daviot,” Wilkins said, crumpling up the wrapper and throwing it into the rubble. “He'll understand.”
“Do you have to do that?” I asked with a sigh.
“Do what?” He gave a wide-eyed look of innocence that I knew to be a lie.
“Throw your garbage in the street.”
Wilkins gestured outwards. “What street?”
“You're unbelievable,” I sighed, jumping down and making my way toward Rogers.
“I know you love me, Daviot!” Wilkins called after me.
I replied with a single-fingered salute of my own. I loved him like a brother, but he didn't understand the pressure I was under. Okay, the pressure I put myself under. It didn't really matter where it came from though. It was there, and I had to rise to meet it head-on just like I always did. I took my responsibilities seriously. I always did.
Shit, shit, shit!
My heart was racing, the pounding actually painful against my ribs. My chest tightened, and I was finding it impossible to breathe. I gasped, choked, as I struggled to get air into my burning lungs. I knew I was having a panic attack. I'd had them once or twice before when I'd been on leave. It was like my body stored up all of the stress of being deployed and then released it on me all at once when I was home safe.
That clearly wasn't the case now, because I wasn't home, and I sure as hell wasn't safe, especially after the foolish statement I'd just made.
Whatever else Gracen felt toward me didn't prevent him from trying to come to my rescue. I heard him saying my name, but couldn't answer. He came to me, put his hand on my shoulders. I could see the helplessness in his eyes, and it only increased my guilt.
How could I have been so stupid, blurting it out like that? Had I changed history? Had my careless words altered whatever destiny Gracen had already lived out? What if, instead of saving him, I'd just set him on a course that would result in his death?
When I was a senior in high school, I'd read the short story that had coined the phrase “the butterfly effect.” In it, a group traveled back in time, and they're all warned the dangers of straying from the assigned path. One man's failure to do just that results in the death of a butterfly. Something small, insignificant. Except when they returned to their own time, everything had changed.
The concept had been a staple of science fiction even before Bradbury had used a butterfly. If one created a time machine to prevent a death, would saving that person prevent the invention of the very machine that had been used to save them? Can a single moment of bravery in high school completely change the destiny of a family? Will history work to correct itself? Or has our effect already been incorporated into the timeline and we're not actually failing to change history, but rather filling our pre-ordained role?
These thoughts swirled relentlessly through my brain as spots danced in front of my eyes. This wasn't a fictional debate or some theoretical conversation about something that could never happen, because it was happening. To me. To someone I cared about.
“Honor–”
“Stay away from me,” I warned as I pulled away from Gracen. My voice was thin, little more than a whisper, but it was there.
What had I done?
“Honor, please, calm down.” He held up his hands in a gesture I recognized. He was trying to calm me.
A flash of anger went through me at the thought of him being condescending to me. To my surprise, the anger drove away the panic, and I found myself able to breathe. I gulped in air and closed my eyes, trying to focus on not passing out.
“Talk to me, Honor.”
I opened my eyes and saw that he'd come a few steps closer. I shook my head. “You have no idea what I've just done.”
He frowned at me, his expression showing his confusion. “You haven't done anything wrong, Honor. You can't be held accountable for your opinions.”
I started to say that he was wrong since the British would consider my statement to be tantamount to treason, but then his last word registered.
Opinions.
Part of me was relieved that I hadn't caused as much damage as I'd thought, but another part was angry that he could dismiss what I said so easily. I told myself not to be stupid, that he couldn’t know that I wasn't simply stating my mind, but rather historical fact. But that wasn't the real reason I was upset, I forced myself to admit. I might not have been able to expect him to believe me, but I wanted him to take me seriously, to take my opinion seriously.
He reached for me, and I realized that I didn't want him to touch me. Not like this. Not when he was treating me like some fragile, hysterical woma
n.
“Don't touch me,” I snapped as I took a step back.
“It's okay, Honor. You can relax.”
“I need to go,” I said as I took a quick step around him. “I can't stay here anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I've done enough.” I was talking more to myself than him now. “I have to get out of here. I should've left the first time around.”
He grabbed my arm, turning me to face him. I pulled back, tried to step away, to get away. I needed to go. I needed to get home, to my own time, to the time where this part of history had already been written. I struggled against his grip, and he grabbed my other arm. I was strong, but he was stronger.
“Let go.” I stopped fighting and appealed to him directly. “Please, just let me go.”
“I won't enlist, okay?” His voice sounded desperate. “I won't go anywhere, okay? I'll stay here.”
I was nearly in tears, and I cursed myself for it. He wasn't my responsibility. None of this was. I didn't know the choice Gracen had made originally, and if I changed his mind, for all I knew, I could be changing my entire future. While history hadn't recorded his name, I knew that it wasn't only the people in the textbooks who were responsible for the outcomes of wars. For all I knew, in the history of where I came from, Gracen had enlisted in the British Army, and he'd influenced someone or made some decision that led to a British loss. If he wasn't there, it was possible the Redcoats could win a battle that they'd lost before.
It was too much to think about. Too much responsibility that I didn't want. That I couldn't take. It didn't matter how I felt about him, or that the thought of him dying tore me apart. I couldn't change things.
“I can't…Gracen, I–”
Before I knew what was happening, Gracen's lips were pressed against mine, his hands still gripping me tightly as he drew me toward him. My mind went blank as everything else took a backseat to the feel of his mouth on mine. My pulse picked up again, but it wasn't panic fueling it this time.
For the few seconds we stood there, I felt that time itself had stopped, just for us. That this was the reason I'd been brought here. I remembered the dream I had, the one where I'd had the epiphany that he was the reason I'd gone through time, that this connection between us had been enough to break the rules so the two of us could be together. For a moment, I believed that none of this mattered, that everything would be okay.