What the Moon Saw

by D. L. Koontz

  Davis shook himself against the moment. “Anyway, don’t rely on one stock. There are other good investments. You’ll recognize the names. RCA, General Motors. General Electric. The latter for example, is currently overwhelmed with public demand for generators, motors, home appliances.”

  “So much to memorize.”

  “Just remember the rules for investing in this decade.” He clicked them off on his fingers. “Buy low and sell high. Diversify so that no one mistake will sink you. And, take all your money out of the stock market, and even the bank, by August 1929. That’s when prices reach their highest levels. There are a couple mini collapses in the market in 1928 and early 1929, but each time the market recovers and carries on. The disaster comes in October 1929.”

  “The Stock Market Crash.”

  They spent another half hour discussing stocks and the Depression that ushered in the 1930s. By then, darkness surrounded them, save the flickering light of the fire. The sizzle and crackle of the embers was disturbed only by a distant wolf howl that carried on a breeze in the clear night air. The sound wrapped around Libby like it too didn’t want to be alone, and she would have grown melancholy if she hadn’t leaned back and gazed at the sky. Though the waning moon was mostly round and beige like a Nilla wafer making her wonder if that snack food even existed yet, the constellations were all in their familiar places, and that gave her a sense of momentary peace. There were a billion stars! She felt like she was trapped inside some monstrous planetarium, as there was no artificial light anywhere thwarting their sparkle.

  Davis spoke, and brought her back to the moment. “As for daily life, the hotel has been electrified. Around three-quarters of urban homes and businesses have been wired for electricity. In rural areas, it’s less than ten percent. Many people still live lives illuminated by the sun.”

  Libby tried to concentrate on her training and other basic information she might need. “What about diseases?”

  “Between the shots you received with the bureau and for the countries you visited, my guess is you’re safe. Cholera, smallpox, and typhoid fever have almost disappeared. Tuberculosis isn’t quite the concern it used to be. Syphilis is practically brought under control, too.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, you’ll find most doctors and health facilities rather antiquated in their approach to medicine compared to what you’re used to. Best bet is to stay as healthy as possible. And, that reminds me, be careful of alcohol.”

  “Because it’s illegal.”

  He cocked his head. “Prohibition has been in effect for more than six years now, and it’s proving to be a dismal failure. It’s ridiculed as ‘enfarcement’ rather than enforcement. Prohibition speakeasies are not quite as clandestine as what we were taught in the future. Police have learned they can’t stop the illegal activity, so they’ve mostly turned their attention to commercial bootleggers and outlaw saloons. You’ll find that if you’re not flagrant about it you’ll be fine. Especially around here. The local sheriff seems to look the other way when it comes to hooch. Most folks hide it by drinking from teacups. If you do imbibe, your safest bet is brandy.”

  He continued, dispensing tips on what to expect and advice on how to approach situations, but her head was swimming. She came out of her fog to hear him ask if she had other questions.

  “Yes,” she said and it came out almost breathless. “What if you had not come to my rescue?”

  Despite the dim firelight, Libby saw his eyes scrunch, puzzled. He studied her. When at last he spoke his tone hinted at both surprise and conviction. “You would have managed. You have spunk and brains and charm. You’ll adapt.”

  “I think,” Libby said in a low voice as if she didn’t want to disturb the nightlife in the woods, “I would have found adapting to a new time as hard as reaching this new time, if it weren’t for you.” She swallowed her apprehension as she looked at her companion in dismay.

  “Libby, out there,” he nodded his head away from them and spoke in a gentle tone, the sound stroking her like a comforting caress, “they’re not aliens. True, the wealthy live in a very small, sheltered, and self-contained world, but they’re people, just like us.”

  She thought about that a moment. “But I’m not part of them. Not part of their world.”

  “You are part of their world. Just a different time in history. It’s important that you interact. Otherwise, you’ll feel detached. A permanent observer. Being born in a place doesn’t make it home. Being born in a time doesn’t make it home either.”

  “Do you ever wonder about this? How is it possible?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did we create an alternate timeline when we came here?” She massaged her temples with the fingers of one hand. “I once saw this sci-fi flick about people making poor decisions. All those decisions split reality into more worlds. Did that happen to us?”

  He inclined his head in thought but his gaze didn’t leave the fire.

  She continued. “Are we being punished? And how many other timeframes are happening at the same time as our old time? If I could live long enough, will I meet my infant self?”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever know that answer,” he said, splaying his hands. He leaned in and parked his elbows on his thighs. “In the twenty-first century, we prided ourselves on the control we had over our world, but the truth is what we don’t know is vastly greater than what we do. Much of the universe is still a mystery.” He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Albert Einstein said time has no independent existence apart from the order of events by which we measure it.” His lips twisted into a sheepish grin. “But I don’t think he’s even written those words yet.” He leaned back and chuckled.

  Libby stared at him a moment, then snorted a chuckle too. As though a dam had been opened, they laughed together, loud and full, unfettered by concern about the morrow. It had been a long time since she laughed this easily and comfortably, and especially with like-minded understanding.

  He attempted seriousness again. “The Book of Isaiah says to forget the former things. Not to dwell on the past. Maybe we should just practice that.”

  The thought served only to tickle her more and she smirked. “That makes it even more complicated because our past is the future.”

  He laughed renewed and the sound of it warmed her.

  Silence fell once more, and she studied Davis as flickers of firelight caused shadows to dance on his face. “Why do you do this? Why did you help me?”

  He went still. His smile faded and he shrugged. “I admit it’s a little bit curiosity, but mostly I want to make anyone else’s transition a bit easier. Now, come on.” He stood, stretched, and looked around. “Let’s put out the fire and get some sleep.” He reached out his hand to help her up.

  With a faint nod of resolution, Libby took a final sip of wine and took his hand. Once she was on her feet, he let go and the loss of the physical contact left her feeling momentarily bereft, reminding her that soon she would have to proceed alone.

  As she waited for sleep to come that night, her mind drifted away from Davis and Andrew, through the woods and down the road to the Springs Hotel, no inkling what the morrow might bring, but determined to meet it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1926

  At sunrise Davis and Libby finished the last of the food—eggs, stale biscuits, cheese, apples, coffee—before extinguishing the fire and packing his gear. They hauled the duffel bags, bedrolls and supplies down the slope of the wooded mountainside to what appeared to be a seldom-used dirt road. After several trips, they returned to the cave where they took turns changing.

  This time as they descended the hill, she wore her new dress and shoes, so Davis held her arm as they maneuvered the steep trail.

  When they reached the pile of belongings they’d left there, he eyed her footwear. “Why don’t you wait here while I get the motorcar? It’s just up the road a bit, tucked in a ravine. Be back in about ten, fifteen minutes.”

  She nodded and plopped down o
n a bag, steadying herself, and digging her fingernails into her palms, summoning courage for the day ahead. She breathed in the evergreens and assessed the sky. It was unblemished and a perfect picture-postcard shade of blue. The woods were quiet as the morning sun buttered the tips of the mountains off to the west and filtered through the woods. “Komorebi,” she whispered. Japanese, for the sunlight that comes through the leaves of the trees.

  “Somebody help!”

  Libby stiffened.

  The voice sounded again, louder this time, carrying on an otherwise hushed breeze.

  The plea persisted. “Leave me alone!”

  It was a woman’s panicked voice, coming from the opposite direction Davis had departed.

  Go, Libby.

  She galvanized into action, and sprinted around the bend in the dirt road, moving as quickly as her clumsy shoes would allow. Up ahead, a young blond-headed female struggled with a lanky man. Judging by the way he swayed and wobbled on his feet, he was a rather inebriated man as well.

  The girl swung from his grasp. “I don’t care who you are. I know what you did to Dulcina.”

  The man guffawed, and slurred out: “That little tramp? She wanted it. And so do you—”

  “Let go of me!” She held an embroidered bag about the size of a briefcase and tried to swat him with it, but the man ducked and grabbed for her, his elbow ramming into her cheek before he could maneuver and twist her to grasp her around the waist.

  The girl cried out and touched her cheek, dropping her bag.

  He grinned, as he endeavored to hold her tighter. “Spirited little thing. I do enjoy the struggle.”

  Libby ran faster. “Let go of her!”

  The girl screamed at the same time, drowning out Libby’s warning. Between spurts of laughter the man said, “Just a little fun. Don’t be such a Puritan. No one needs to know,” but in his slurred speech, it sounded more like, “Jez lil fun. Don bees setch eh per tan. Nah un needsa know.”

  By this time, he held the girl from behind, his arms wrapped around her front. His back was to Libby as she approached. She smelled the tell-tale signs of alcohol from several yards away. Davis was right that prohibition hadn’t much suppressed consumption.

  The cad had a young man’s strength on his side, but Libby had the element of surprise and his inebriated condition on hers.

  In the noise and the scuffle, the man showed no reaction to her arrival. The first he acknowledged her was when she pounded on his back with her palm, and in her most commanding voice said, “Excuse me. You need to let go of the lady.”

  Libby hoped her presence might stifle his ugly behavior and they’d all walk away, but she was wrong.

  Startled, he let the girl go and whirled to see what had interrupted his fun, anger etching his face. “This is none of your damn business,” he growled as his fist came toward her.

  Libby whipped her left arm up across her body, her hand straight and stiff, and deflected his blow. She took advantage of his shock to swing her right palm up and simultaneously kick him in the knee. Unfortunately, he shifted at the same time and her palm hit his nose and lip, rather than the chin she targeted. The moves felt familiar. Rehearsed. Like she had done them before.

  His grasp for his knee, coupled with a cry of pain, gave her a quirky feeling of satisfaction, which was quickly extinguished when she realized she’d split her new dress near its hem. He collapsed on the ground cradling his leg and cursing, his face deformed with pain, his lip cut open, and blood dripping from his nose onto his shirt.

  “You little guttersnipe!” he snarled between groans. “You’ll pay for this.” His tone made it a threat.

  The girl’s hat and bag had fallen to the side, so Libby hurried to retrieve and hand them to her. Libby took her by the arm and pulled her a couple yards away from the creep on the ground. “You okay?” she asked, although it was clear the girl wasn’t. Color had drained from her face, her stance was rigid, and her left sleeve was torn.

  With eyes round as saucers, the girl hesitated, then nodded hurriedly. Libby would have assumed she was speechless due to shock if it hadn’t been for the fact she was assessing Libby like she was an alien being.

  “Come on,” Libby said as she gripped the girl around the shoulders and led her back the path she had come. With no cell phone to call 9-1-1 or snap a picture of the drunken idiot, it was the only wise thing to do.

  “But...but...” the girl sputtered, continuing with Libby, yet repeatedly looking back over her shoulder at the guy.

  “He’ll be fine,” Libby assured her, never breaking her stride. “He’ll be able to hobble in a short time.” How did she know he’d be fine? And for that matter, how had she known how to overpower him? The FBI training?

  “But miss. That’s Mr. Martelli. He’s a guest at the hotel. I might lose my job.”

  Libby stopped and in a scolding tone asked, “Is he your boyfriend? Did you do anything to encourage his attention?”

  “No, miss, I would never do that! But—”

  Libby began walking again and tugged the girl along. “I don’t care if he’s the president of the United States,” she growled, all the while wondering if people in this day referred to the country as that or as America. “He’s not allowed to attack women.”

  Libby led the girl back to where she’d been sitting, pulled out another duffel bag, and gestured for her to sit. “Have a seat. Davis...my uncle Davis will be here shortly. We can give you a ride to wherever you’re going. You alright now?”

  The girl dutifully sat, donned her hat, and tucked her bag on her lap, clutching it in a tight hold with both hands. Her right cheek had turned red and Libby suspected it would be black and blue before nightfall.

  All the while the girl’s wide innocent eyes stared at Libby with fascination. Finally, she swallowed. “I ain’t never seen anyone do that before. Least wise, not a woman,” she stammered as if in awe.

  Libby forced a smile and studied her. She was a couple inches shorter but several pounds heavier, and looked to be about eighteen or nineteen years old, older than Libby originally thought. Wisps of golden curly hair peaked out from beneath an adorable cloche hat, making her drab, thread-worn brown dress look all that much blander. Her hands were calloused and showed signs of hard work, and her shoes were scuffed with marks that suggested age rather than damage from the scene they’d just left.

  Libby had an urge to tell her something prescient about self-protection and the wisdom of carrying a small handgun if she had to walk this desolate road, but squelched the impulse. Libby had to learn to subdue her inclinations to comment and to offer advice based on foreknowledge or her advanced training from the future, whatever it had involved. She had to behave as if she were exactly what Davis and she rehearsed. Most daunting, Libby had to start believing it herself. As for the double negative the girl had delivered with ‘ain’t never,’ Libby let that go, too. All that mattered was that they understood one another.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rosella, Miss. Rosella Morgan. But people call me Rose.”

  “Well, Rose, it’s just something I learned through the years.” Libby hoped that would put her at ease, the suggestion that she had been in Rose’s shoes before. Rose appeared to relax a bit, so Libby continued, hoping her next comment would further establish her as more of a normal woman of this period, whatever that was. Picking up the hem of her dress, Libby said, “Besides, it clearly wasn’t my wisest decision, was it?”

  Rose’s eyes lit up. “I can fix that, miss.” She fossicked through her bag and Libby caught sight of a cloth change purse, a rabbit’s foot, a maid’s cap and two garments, one black and the other made of a sheer white with lace edging. From the depths of her bag Rose retrieved a pair of steel scissors, a packet of needles and thread.

  It was Libby’s turn to look at her with fascination. “A regular Mary Poppins bag, eh?”

  Rose drew her brows together. “I don’t know her ma’am. Is she a good seamstress?”


  Libby’s shoulders dropped. Perhaps Mary Poppins hadn’t even been written yet. She’d have to be more careful. Rose’s hand reached for the hem of Libby’s dress, but Libby stopped her. “You don’t have to do that. Your own sleeve is torn—”

  “I’ll fix mine later. And, it’s no trouble, miss. Besides, it’s the least I can do to thank ya.” She scooted closer. Turning the hem to its back side, she sewed quickly, producing short, even stiches that would have competed with those of modern day machines.

  As if the movement of her hands had activated her speech, Rose rattled on making Libby wonder when she’d take a breath. “That man, he’s a guest at the hotel where I work. The Springs Hotel. None of us like him. Always trying to get us girls alone, he is. He already attacked another maid, he did. Dulcina. She’s a maid like me—”

  “He attacked another girl? As in, raped?”

  The girl grimaced but didn’t miss a stitch.

  “What did the police do?”

  Rose shrugged, despite the sewing. “She didn’t want them to know. Can’t say I blame her. Might lose her job, she might. She needs the money real bad. Got no family. Some of the girls work there hoping to catch a rich husband. Kinda loose with their morals, if you know what I mean, miss. But not me and my friends, Lavinia and Dulcina. We wanna marry for love. Someday. Right now, we work cause we need the money.”

  For a moment Libby was ready to respond in anger on Dulcina’s behalf. To express indignation and expound on how wrong this injustice was and that it must be corrected, but Rose continued babbling with anxious release.

  “Me mum lives north o’ here, ’bout twelve miles, she does,” Rose said. “Too far to walk every day, so I stay in a boarding house in town and walk to work. The employees’ dormitory here at the Springs was filled when I started working. Mostly I clean the rooms and make the beds, but I’m the one they call when guests’ clothes need to be mended.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind because the extra money is nice. And, sometimes I pick up an order for a hat.”