Time Castaways #2

by Liesl Shurtliff

  “So . . . how did you get it? Do I give it to you or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Are we related?” Matt looked down at the dagger in his hand. “I mean, are you . . .”

  “I am not your grandfather,” said Quine.

  “Are you . . .”

  “I am not your father either.”

  “Are you . . .”

  “No, I am not reading your mind. Not in the way you’re thinking. You just think in highly predictable ways.”

  “I do n—”

  “Yes, you do,” said Quine, chuckling. “For instance, I know that after perhaps a few more inane questions you will bring up all the drama between your mother and Captain Vincent, and how he’s trying to steal the Aeternum and destroy all your happiness. It’s all rather boring and cliché if you ask me, but humans do delight in repeating history and telling the same stories over and over and over again. You and I are above such bores though, so let’s skip it, shall we? Don’t waste any time or breath. Both are precious. Ask me about something interesting.”

  “Fine,” said Matt, exasperated. He did not like to be bulldozed in this way, especially by someone who didn’t have the good grace to show his face. He looked toward the notebook he’d dropped on the floor. He thought of the poem and the Chinese character. “That poem in the notebook,” said Matt. “Did you write it?”

  “I did.”

  “The Chinese character at the end . . . ,” said Matt.

  “It means ‘eternity,’” said Quine. “One of the few subjects worthy of poetry. The other worthy subjects are love and food, in case you were wondering. A poem about all three would be epic, but I lack the skill to pull off such a feat.”

  “Okay . . . ,” said Matt. He felt a little discombobulated by the conversation. He was feeling strange for some reason, a little fuzzy, like his brain was only functioning at 50 percent.

  “I’ve seen that Chinese character with another poem,” he said, “a poem about the Aeternum. Did you write it?”

  “Perhaps,” said Quine. “Recite it for me.”

  “I don’t know all of it. I’ve only seen it once, and some of it was missing.”

  “Recite what you remember, then,” said Quine.

  Matt tried to clear his head and remember the words of the poem.

  “The Aeternum will mend,” Matt began, and Quine immediately interrupted him.

  “Oh! I remember this one. It’s one of my best works.”

  “Is it true?” Matt asked.

  “Of course it’s true!” said Quine. “Lies do not belong in poetry, even when it’s abysmal. Poetry must always speak truth.”

  “So the Aeternum,” said Matt. “It really exists?”

  “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Quine said impatiently. “Yes. I have it in this very room, though its power is currently dormant.”

  Matt’s heart beat wildly in his chest. The Aeternum was real. It existed. He looked around, wondering where it could be, what it could be.

  “Why is its power dormant?” Matt asked.

  “Its full power can only be unleashed under very special conditions and circumstances. All the necessary details are in the poem.”

  “Oh,” said Matt. “That’s the problem. Some of the words in the poem got ripped off the page, so I didn’t get to read every word.”

  “That’s unfortunate. It’s much more satisfying when read in full.”

  Matt waited for Quine to tell him the rest of the poem, but he didn’t. “There’s something written about me,” said Matt. “Or at least my name appears in the poem. It sounds like I’m supposed to be sacrificed or something, but it’s not totally clear.”

  Quine chuckled. “Oh, what agony to not know your own poetic fate!”

  Matt felt his patience snap and his anger flare up. “It’s not funny!”

  Quine stopped laughing. “You are right. It isn’t funny at all, nor fair.”

  Matt calmed down a little. “Then will you tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t I have a right to know?”

  “If you have a right to know then you’ll figure it out for yourself,” said Quine. “Children these days. Or any day! They always want a handout. Such entitlement! You never want to work for what you want. Well, I’m going to teach you a life lesson I had to teach myself once upon a time. Twice actually. If you want something, then you have to work for it. And there’s no time like the present to start working for what you want. Here, I’ll be generous and help you get started.” Quine’s two gloved hands coalesced in midair. One hand picked up the spiral-bound notebook off the ground, while the other zoomed to the other side of the room and rifled through a set of drawers until it found a pen. The two hands came together and held out the notebook and pen to Matt.

  “Let’s see if you can finish the poem yourself, hmm?” Quine’s disembodied hand flipped through the pages of the notebook. Matt could now see about an inch of dark skin at the wrist and forearm. He noticed some darker lines in the flesh, a tattoo Matt was guessing. He was very curious to know what sort of thing a man like Quine would have tattooed on his arm.

  Quine opened the notebook to a page that already had some scribbled numbers on it and a sketch of the Obsidian Compass, but still had a blank space toward the bottom half of the page. He held it out to Matt. “Just scribble it down anywhere.”

  Matt tentatively took the notebook and pen, wincing. With all the burns and cuts on his hand he could barely hold the pen correctly.

  “Now,” said Quine, “write down what you know, and work from there.”

  Matt began to scribble the poem on the page with a sloppy hand, but he didn’t get two words out before Quine started commentating.

  “The Aeternum,” he said. “A poem that begins with eternity. Isn’t that beautiful irony?”

  “Um, yes,” said Matt, and he continued.

  “‘The Aeternum will fix what is broken . . .’”

  Quine cleared his throat. “‘Mend what is broken.’”

  “Whatever, same thing,” said Matt.

  “But it isn’t the same at all,” said Quine. “Two words may have similar meanings, but they will evoke different images and emotions. You must understand this in poetry, in life! Fix is too routine and indifferent for what is needed here. Mend has a more comforting, holistic connotation. Plumbers fix clogged toilets. A mother’s love can mend a broken heart.”

  “Okay. Got it,” said Matt a bit snappishly, crossing out the word fix and replacing it with mend in cramped handwriting beneath it. He was starting to feel a headache coming on. This Marius Quine was a real piece of work. Maybe that was part of being a poet.

  “‘The Aeternum will mend what is broken. Reclaim what is lost,’” Matt repeated. “The next line is something about taking over the world. ‘The world will be yours,’” Matt remembered and wrote it down. “Now this is when some of the words start to get cut off. ‘The world will be yours, but it comes at a . . . cost’?”

  “Ooh, yes, that’s perfect!” said Quine. “I love a clean rhyme. What next?” Now he was speaking as though Matt were the one making all this up, and he was just here to coach on the sidelines.

  Matt read over what he’d gotten down so far. The remaining lines would be more difficult to finish. He racked his brain, which was feeling increasingly dull and fuzzy, trying to see the piece of paper from Vincent’s office in his mind’s eye. “There’s something about a sacrifice,” said Matt. “‘A sacrifice must be . . .’ made, I’m guessing. ‘To win . . .’ To win . . . what? The world?”

  “That would be some nice alliteration,” said Quine, “but you already talked about winning the world. Best not to be redundant. My guess is you’re trying to express a slightly different idea.”

  “What do you mean I’m trying to express a different idea,” said Matt. “This is your poem! Not mine.”

  “If you like,” said Quine.

  “What, is this a game to you?”
>
  “A game!” said Quine. “That works!”

  “What?”

  “For the poem.”

  Matt looked down. “‘A sacrifice must be made to win this game’?”

  “Yes, that sounds right,” said Quine. “Almost there.”

  Matt took a breath. The next line was the part that mentioned him.

  Bring Mateo t . . .

  “‘Bring Mateo to somewhere’? Or ‘Bring Mateo the something’?”

  “What does it sound like?” said Quine.

  “It sounds like I’m going to be sacrificed. Or something like that,” said Matt.

  “Yes, very good,” said Quine.

  Matt felt a jolt run through him, like he’d just been shocked by those electrical paddles at the hospital. The pen he’d been writing with slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. “Wait. So . . . you’re saying I will be sacrificed? Like, murdered kind of sacrifice?”

  “I’m not sure murder is precisely the right word.”

  “Then what’s the right word?!” Matt shrieked so his voice cracked.

  “You know,” mused Quine. “I’m not sure there is a right word for this. Some things just have to be experienced in the moment.”

  “What moment? What experience?”

  “The moment when you are sacrificed,” said Quine, “in order to create the Aeternum.”

  Matt felt his head spin and his heart drop to his stomach. “What? What are you . . . ?”

  But Matt could not finish his questions. Something smacked him hard in the face. He was jerked away so fast he wasn’t certain he brought all his parts with him.

  22

  Family Ties

  Matt’s eyes flew open. He gasped for breath, and his limbs flailed. He felt like he was falling, but someone was holding him tightly in their arms.

  “Mateo,” said a voice. His mom. “It’s okay, chéri. I’ve got you.”

  Matt stopped fighting. He looked around, but he couldn’t see. Everything was bright white until he blinked a few times and saw the dark silhouettes of several people around him. After a few more moments his vision sharpened, and their faces started to take shape. His mom, dad, Corey, Ruby, Jia, Tui, Chuck, and Annie were all hovering over him like a team of surgeons ready to conduct experiments on him.

  His mom still cradled him against her chest. Matt pushed himself away. She reluctantly let go.

  “What happened?” he said, his breathing ragged and his head buzzing.

  “You blacked out,” said Ruby. “You had a seizure.”

  “A seizure . . . ,” said Matt.

  “It was scary, bro,” said Corey. “You were shaking so much it was like you were flickering in and out like a dying lightbulb.”

  “I didn’t . . . disappear?” he asked. “I didn’t travel?”

  “No, chéri,” said his mom, her voice shaking a little. “You only blacked out for a minute.”

  Matt tried to sort through what had just happened. His head ached. He felt weird, like he was only half here and half somewhere else. “I went to the future,” he mumbled.

  “The future?” Ruby asked. “How far? What year?”

  “I don’t know,” said Matt. “I saw flying cars and buildings that went in waves and loops. I read poetry. . . .”

  His mom and dad shared a concerned look.

  “He’s probably got a touch of heatstroke,” said Annie. “It causes hallucinations and fainting spells. I’ve seen it plenty at the fair in Chicago.”

  “He needs water,” said Tui.

  “Ruby, Corey, get some water please?” said Mrs. Hudson.

  In less than a minute they each came back with a cup of water. Mrs. Hudson took the cup from Corey’s hands and placed it to Matt’s lips, tipping it for him. Some of the water spilled down his face and neck, but he drained the entire cup in five seconds. It soothed his dry throat and smoky lungs.

  Matt lifted his left hand to wipe his mouth. His mother gasped.

  “What?” Matt looked at his hand. He thought maybe he’d gotten yet another injury, but when he held out his hand he realized he was holding something. The dagger, the one Quine had given to him.

  “What is it?” Ruby asked.

  “It’s . . . ,” Mrs. Hudson began, but choked on her words.

  “It belonged to her father.” Matt held the dagger out to his mom.

  Mrs. Hudson gently took the dagger and held it gingerly in her hands. She gazed at it, speechless, her eyes glassy. Matt saw a lump form in her throat. “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

  “Quine gave it to me.”

  His mother stiffened. Her nostrils flared, and her eyes flashed. “What?” she snapped. Matt flinched at the sudden sharpness in her voice. “When? Where?” She looked around, as though Quine might suddenly appear at any moment.

  “Just now,” said Matt. “When I blacked out I traveled to the future and . . . and I met Quine.”

  His mom’s face flooded with fear and alarm. She held the dagger so tight she began to shake. His dad put a hand on her shoulder.

  “But, bro,” said Corey. “That’s impossible. You never left.”

  “You were here the entire time,” said Ruby. “You only blacked out for a minute, and we were all watching you. You never left our sight.”

  “Maybe I was only gone for an instant for you, but I had to have gone. How else can you explain that?” Matt pointed to the dagger.

  “What happened with Quine?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “What did he say? Did he hurt you?”

  Matt shook his head, trying to clear the fog that was still hovering over his brain. “I don’t know. We talked about stuff. Cell separation. Poetry. Self-peace.”

  “Self-peace?”

  “It’s achievable,” said Matt.

  “Mateo,” said his mom, grabbing his face between her hands, forcing him to look right in her eyes. “I need you to think very carefully. I need to know everything that happened between you and Quine.”

  “Nothing, really,” said Matt. “I was trying to ask him questions about Vincent and the Aeternum, but he wasn’t very helpful.”

  “What did he look like?” Ruby asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Matt. “He was . . . invisible.”

  “Invisible?” said Corey.

  “Except for his hands. Sometimes I could see his hands, though he wore gloves. I think he has some major tattoos on his hands and arms.”

  Mrs. Hudson’s eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed. He could tell she was thinking something, putting together the pieces of a puzzle, but he wasn’t sure what.

  “Hey,” said Corey. “If Matt traveled, then that means his compass works, so now we should all be able to travel, right?”

  “I think so,” said Matt. “But if Blossom didn’t travel too, she probably needs some repairs, I’m guessing. I’d better start checking . . .”

  He tried to get up, but his dad forced him down. “How about you take a little break?” he said. “Travel can wait. Let’s get you out of the sun. You need to rehydrate.”

  Matt nodded, suddenly realizing how weak he felt. His arm hurt too. The burns hurt twice as badly as they had before.

  His dad helped Matt get belowdecks into one of the dim, cramped cabins. Corey and Ruby brought him more water, and his mom put another wet T-shirt on his burned arm.

  “What’s this?” she said, tapping his hand, which was clenched into a fist. He turned it over and noticed bits of white paper sticking out between his fingers. He slowly opened his hand, revealing a balled-up scrap of paper. Matt’s heart flared. His mom almost reached for it, but Matt quickly closed his fist.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just garbage.” He stuffed the paper in his pocket. His mom looked at him suspiciously, but then her face softened. She sighed and shook her head. “Will I ever be able to keep you in one place?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose!” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “But try to stay around for a while, give us all a break.” She leaned ove
r and kissed him on the forehead.

  After his mom left, Matt reached in his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper. He unraveled it and flattened it out with his left hand, revealing a jumble of letters and words written in awkward, sloppy handwriting. It was completely nonsensical on its own, but Matt understood what it was at once. It was the missing piece from Quine’s letter, the missing pieces of his poem that Matt had been writing down. He’d ripped it off as he was being torn away in time.

  Matt studied the letters and words. He began to piece them together and fill in the blanks.

  The next day the whole family and crew were buzzing around like a bunch of worker ants, trying to prepare for travel. Matt and Jia had been all over the boat, inspecting and making repairs. They discovered a slight crack in the engine. Jia said the heat from all the geysers must have caused it. It was a miracle they’d been able to travel at all.

  “Can we fix it?” Matt asked.

  “That depends,” said Jia. “Do you have any peanut butter and bubble gum on board?”

  Matt laughed and went belowdecks to rifle through their food supplies. It was kind of a mess. Nothing was very organized. Cans and jars and packets of food were all jumbled together. He finally found a jar of peanut butter. He was guessing bubble gum was going to be a little more difficult to find. Gum, gum, where would he find gum? His mom always kept some mint gum in a small desk drawer. Matt started opening drawers and cupboards. He looked through bins of junk. He found an old-fashioned camera, a few sixties and seventies rock band records, piles of letters, and photos of Chuck hiking mountains and canyons and climbing cliffs, some of them from years past, when he still had dark hair and a shorter beard. Tucked between the photos was the recipe card for tuna and Jell-O pie. Matt glanced at it briefly, marveling at how anyone could make such a disgusting thing, and then his eyes caught on the name at the bottom of the recipe.

  MADE WITH LOVE AND LAUGHTER

  BY GLORIA HUDSON

  That was weird. Did Chuck borrow this recipe from Gaga? Matt turned the card over and found something else weird. A Polaroid of his dad in a tuxedo, his arm around another man in a tuxedo. They looked very much alike. Matt recognized him as his uncle Charles. He rifled through the other pictures again, looking a little more closely at the faces. The more he saw, the more his frown deepened. He jumbled all the pictures together and went above deck.