No Ordinary Thing

by G. Z. Schmidt

  Francine walked over to a pile of items, rummaged through it, and produced a thin, red, rectangular box. She lifted the lid and held the box up to Adam.

  “Special treat?” she asked. It was clear she wanted to change the subject.

  Adam peered inside. The candies in the box were round and patterned like peppermints, except they were transparent like glass and had scarlet and black spirals. Francine wasted no time. She eagerly took two pieces and popped them in her mouth. She winced, then grinned.

  “Try it,” she urged Adam. “Daisy makes the best sweets in the city.”

  Somehow Adam doubted that. He had been taught as a young kid not to take sweets from strangers. But Francine had trusted him enough to invite him to her secret home, and she looked at Adam expectantly. So, against his better judgment, he tried a piece.

  The candy tasted terrible. It was bitter and salty. Adam almost spit it out, but Francine said, “Give it a few more seconds.”

  The flavors made Adam think of thunderclouds and broken floorboards—and black crows, which had gathered in a cluster at his parents’ funeral. His second-grade teacher had taught the class that a group of crows was called a murder of crows. Murder. Death. The thought dampened his mood considerably, and he wondered what he’d gotten himself into, following a strange girl to a warehouse in a completely different era.

  Then, with a twang, the flavor changed. All at once the candy tasted wonderful, like vanilla, strawberry, honey, and something fizzy melted together. Adam bit into it. The pieces crunched between his teeth. He found himself grinning from ear to ear, just like Francine.

  “Told you,” Francine said with a nod. “Bittersweet Bonbons, Daisy calls them. Made with her special formula. Once you get past the bitter part, you taste heaven.”

  “Who is Daisy, exactly?”

  “I told you, she’s a friend. We met downtown a while back. She works as an apprentice for one of the city’s most famous candy shops, and she’s moving up the ranks.” Francine sounded proud. “Did you know, she doesn’t have a family either? Her family disowned her for some reason or another. She left home to become a candy maker.”

  “That’s sad…but also neat.” Bittersweet was the right term for it.

  Francine looked at her hands. “I wasn’t always an orphan, you know. I had a family too, until I was seven.”

  “Oh.” Adam didn’t know what to say. “What happened?”

  “We were at the carnival,” Francine answered shortly. “There was an accident. Here, have more.”

  Adam and Francine each enjoyed two more Bittersweet Bonbons. Adam found it akin to taking fever medicine whenever he got sick—one quick gulp, with a pinch of the nose, and then shortly after, you feel much better than before.

  “How old are you?” Francine asked, swallowing the last of her candy.

  “I’m twelve,” said Adam.

  Francine reached into her canvas bag and counted out twelve white-and-green candles. She handed the bundle to Adam.

  “A thank-you present,” she explained. “For helping me escape that butcher.”

  Adam hesitated.

  “Plenty more where those came from. Take them.”

  Adam thanked her. “I’ll try to help Tito,” he murmured. “In the future, they have a vaccine for polio. Not a cure, exactly, but almost.”

  Francine suddenly sounded weary. “Don’t,” she said simply.

  “What do you mean?”

  But Francine clamped her mouth shut and refused to answer. She avoided Adam’s eyes. Instead, her gaze fell on the snow globe.

  “Your snow globe city just disappeared,” she pointed out.

  Adam glanced at the tilted snow globe in his hand. He noticed too late the confetti sliding behind the glass—and the missing cityscape inside.

  When he looked up again, Francine was gone. In fact, the whole warehouse had disappeared. Adam was back in his bedroom, standing next to his dresser, his hands clutching the candles and the snow globe. He could hear Uncle Henry still snoring in the living room.

  Afterward, Adam lay wide awake in bed for a long time. Then, in the quiet stillness, he suddenly realized something.

  In the piles of random items along the wall at Francine’s, there had been a silver cassette player.

  A cassette player. Adam no longer listened to cassette tapes—hardly anyone did in 1999, thanks to CDs—but even he knew that such an invention was completely out of place in Francine’s time.

  Its presence meant one of two things:

  Either Francine was a time traveler too, or Adam was not the first person to have traveled through time to visit her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CLOCKMAKER’S SECRET

  One month after Elbert Walsh turned eighteen, he discovered something truly remarkable.

  He had just emerged from the stage with his trusty golden pendulum. It had been a particularly noteworthy performance. He’d hypnotized the mayor into a deep trance, and the audience had watched in awe as the mayor began doing whatever Elbert instructed him to do. The mayor did three cartwheels and yodeled for the audience for two minutes before falling out of the trance, with no recollection of what had happened.

  As usual, the cheering crowds gathered around him in the lobby. Journalists jotted down notes about the spectacular performance for the next day’s press and pelted the magician with questions.

  “Elbert the Excellent,” cried a reporter with slick black hair. “Is it true your pendulum is pure magic?”

  Elbert had heard this question numerous times. He merely winked in reply.

  “Elbert the Excellent, are you going to duel the Great Houdini?” someone else shouted.

  “Elbert, Elbert! What’s your favorite color?”

  “Elbert the Excellent—what’s your secret?”

  “Sorry,” answered Elbert. “A good magician never reveals his secrets.”

  He managed to escape the crowd. Outside, Elbert put on his spring cloak and headed for Santiago’s shop. It had been almost a year since he’d purchased the golden pendulum. The old clockmaker had told him his debt was more than repaid, but Elbert enjoyed working alongside Santiago, so he kept going back.

  That evening, Elbert noticed the outside of the shop was looking worn. But the inside was as well kept as ever. He walked through the door and breathed in the familiar smell of polished wood, metal clock gears, and lavender-scented candles.

  “In here,” came Santiago’s hoarse call.

  Elbert met him in the back of the shop, where the clockmaker kept customers’ timepieces in need of repairs. The old man was in the middle of inspecting a broken wristwatch.

  “How was the show?” asked Santiago.

  “Very good, sir,” answered Elbert, dangling the glistening pendulum around his thumb with a wink, then slipping it back into his pocket. “I’ve been asked to perform in Philadelphia next month.”

  “That is marvelous. I always saw great potential in you.” Santiago let out a long cough.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes. Dreadful allergies.” The clockmaker sniffed. “Try not to catch hay fever like me.”

  In the last few months, Elbert had grown increasingly worried about Santiago’s health. The old man’s back made him stoop so low, he was half the height of the grandfather clocks.

  That night, Santiago had not one, but five more coughing spells. Each time, Elbert watched helplessly. He offered to get a glass of water, to get medicine from the drugstore. The old man refused again and again.

  The two were storing away the pocket watches for the night when Elbert raised the question that tumbled uneasily in his head.

  “Santiago,” he said. “What’s going to happen to the shop once you…retire?”

  “My clocks are my life. I will not retire.”

  “No, sir, I meant what’ll happen should you become ill and…” Elbert trailed off uncomfortably.

  There was a long silence. “Why do you ask?”

  “Who’s goin
g to run the shop? Take on repairs for your customers? What will happen to all these wonderful clocks you’ve made? There are lots of valuables here, sir. You can’t let them go to just any random person. It’ll be a waste if they’re not appreciated.”

  “Ah.” Santiago smiled. “I am fond of all my works, Elbert, but there are really only two valuables in this entire shop. Three, if you count the pendulum in your hand, but that belongs to you.”

  The old man slowly moved across the room to the metal safe snuggled inside the back wall. Elbert had never seen what was inside the safe before. He watched with curiosity as Santiago rotated the combination lock, then reached inside and retrieved a small item draped in velvet cloth.

  “I have not shown this to another living soul,” the clockmaker said in a hushed voice.

  He removed the cloth to reveal a delicately carved box. It was the color of chestnut, with a golden crest in the front and four short legs at the base. Shiny gold bands embossed the edges.

  “Is it a music box?” asked Elbert.

  “It’s more than just a music box,” Santiago said with a knowing smile. He paused, and Elbert knew he was choosing his words carefully. “This special device is bewitched.”

  “Bewitched?”

  “See how it has no windup key? That’s because the music doesn’t play on command. It plays only on…certain occasions.”

  “What occasions?” asked Elbert, intrigued.

  But Santiago refused to answer. “Ownership of this music box is not for the fainthearted, for its music will bring them trouble and grief. It is not for those who seek reasons behind why things happen.”

  Elbert touched the music box. A tingle shot up his fingertips, all the way to his shoulders.

  “Careful,” murmured Santiago.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “That’s a story of its own. The short version is I obtained it after long years of searching, and after gaining the trust of its previous owner. It has only played twice for me. Twice is enough.”

  The clockmaker’s riddling way of speaking started to irritate Elbert, but his annoyance was quickly replaced by worry when Santiago let out another long cough.

  “What’s the other valuable item?” asked Elbert.

  Santiago slowly retrieved a battered journal from the safe. The soft blue cover had hundreds of wrinkles and creases. “My research,” Santiago said simply.

  He put away the music box and the journal, and locked the safe door behind them.

  “To your original question about me and my shop—do not worry about the future, my friend,” said the clockmaker. “Focus on the present first, and the rest will fall into place.”

  Before Elbert left that night, however, Santiago added, “But if I do die tomorrow, please make sure my two valuables stay protected.”

  “I will,” promised Elbert.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CANDLEWICK

  By now, of course, Adam was fully aware the snow globe had some kind of special property. Twice, with the snow globe in hand, he had inexplicably traveled to a different location in New York City, and a different date altogether.

  Even so, he hadn’t told his uncle about the snow globe or any of his adventures. For one thing, Uncle Henry had a no-nonsense approach when it came to magic. When Adam was younger and they read fairy tales together at bedtime, Uncle Henry would add his own commentary to the storylines.

  For example, “‘The Three Little Pigs said—’ Hm, said must be a metaphor, since pigs don’t speak English…”

  Or, “‘Rapunzel let down her long hair, and the prince used it to climb up the tower—’ which can never happen, by all means. Why, poor Rapunzel’s neck would snap in her effort to support the prince’s weight!”

  Or, “‘Hansel and Gretel found a house made of cake and candy—’ although a house like that in real life would attract enough ants and animals to eat the whole thing in a day. Besides, it would be impossible to walk inside. Have these writers seen how easily cake crumbles?”

  What would Uncle Henry say about time traveling, aside from sending Adam to the psychiatrist?

  Besides, Adam was protective of the snow globe. It might have been the simple fact that it belonged to his late parents. He didn’t have many items—much less valuables—that belonged to them. After they died, adults in crisp suits and briefcases had mentioned most of his parents’ items would be taken away, and used legal words like “repossession of property” and “unfulfilled expenses” that Adam didn’t fully understand.

  It might also have been the unspoken feeling that a magic powerful enough to break the strings of time was best kept secret. Time traveling was no ordinary thing. Adam was smart enough to know that if too many people found out about the snow globe, total chaos would ensue.

  Then there was a third, deeper reason, which he didn’t want to admit to himself. It was the idea that if the snow globe could really get him to travel back in time regularly, maybe he could somehow travel back to before his parents died and warn them not to get on the plane that fateful day. He didn’t dare to bring his hopes up. But hope is a funny thing, springing forth despite our best efforts to squelch it, like a bag of popcorn kernels bursting in the microwave.

  Meanwhile, Halloween was fast approaching. This year, the ingenious holiday where kids dress up as monsters and ghosts in exchange for free candy fell on a weekend, which meant extra time for everyone to ramp up the festivities. Haunted house tours, discounted costumes, and candy sales exploded up and down the streets. The Biscuit Basket also prepared for the event by advertising special jack-o’-lantern cakes and bat-shaped chocolate cookies.

  The bakery attracted more customers than usual, due to the bright array of candles displayed there each night. Adam’s uncle had helped him set up the candles from Francine, which Adam simply said he’d found in the attic. Every evening, the bakery was aglow with a dozen flickering orange lights and the soothing scent of flowers—“like lavender and something tangy,” Uncle Henry had said after sniffing with his powerful baker’s nose. Multiple people stopped by to gawk at the display.

  “These candles were a brilliant idea, just brilliant,” Uncle Henry told Adam after they sold another box of bat-shaped cookies. “Candlelight really gives the place a special feeling, doesn’t it?”

  Adam agreed. How strange it was that candles were one of the only things appropriate for display at both happy events and sad events—ideal whether it was a birthday, a holiday, or a funeral.

  As he helped serve the stream of new customers over the next few days, he began to notice a repeated face in the crowd. There was a tall, thin man in a black suit situated outside the bakery each day. The man had dark hair that matched his suit, and a distinct, pointy chin, above which sat a permanent scowl. He stood just outside the window, peering inside, always in the same spot, and was gone after a few moments.

  On one of the evenings, after Adam delivered leftovers to the Hole, he glimpsed the same man skulking in the shadows of the alley, watching him. When the man saw Adam staring back, he vanished into the alley.

  On Friday, Adam told his uncle about his suspicions.

  “A stranger who follows you?” repeated Uncle Henry.

  Adam nodded. “He hangs outside the bakery. Mostly in the evenings.” He thought he might’ve seen the stranger once before heading to school in the morning, too, but he couldn’t be sure.

  His uncle stopped mixing a bowl of cream to give him a look of concern. “Has this man ever spoken to you?”

  “No.”

  “Hm, I’ll keep an eye out. Meanwhile, be sure to stay in plain sight of other people.” Uncle Henry went back to mixing the cream and said, mostly to himself, “Probably just a competitor trying to case out the place, now that we’re doing well. We’ll show them!”

  On Saturday evening, the day before Halloween, something strange happened. It didn’t have to do with the stranger in the black suit, nor did it have to do with the teenagers dressed up as mummies who littered t
he sidewalks with toilet paper, infuriating every neighbor on the block.

  But it did have to do with—yes, you guessed it—the snow globe.

  When Adam went to bed, his eyes widened. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

  The snow globe on the dresser had changed. Inside the glass was a miniature town on a hilly, grassy countryside.

  Adam examined the tiny piece of scenery for several long moments. Then he went downstairs—“I forgot something,” he responded to Uncle Henry’s questioning gaze in the living room. Downstairs in the bakery, Adam snatched four leftover pastries (he had a feeling Francine might like the ones filled with cheese) and hurried back upstairs. In his room, he threw on his winter jacket and scarf just in case. Then he put the pastries in a paper bag and picked up the snow globe with his free hand.

  He gave it a shake.

  As expected, he found himself on a grassy hill, the same hill that was inside the snow globe. The sky was a deep lavender, and the air felt like late summer. It was much too warm for winter clothing. Adam unzipped his jacket and folded his scarf under his arm.

  The hill overlooked several more hilltops. A small town was sprawled across the last of them, its houses like miniature red-and-white toy blocks glued together. Behind them loomed an ominous gray building, its smokestacks spewing matching gray clouds into the sky.

  The only logical thing to do was to walk toward the town, and that’s what Adam did.

  As the sky darkened, the streetlights in town flickered on one by one. When Adam reached the outskirts, he realized these were no ordinary streetlights. They were shaped in the style of old-fashioned lanterns. A wrought-iron lamp dangled from a spiraling pole at the top of each post, and they used candles instead of lightbulbs. He inspected the closest streetlamp, where yellow flames flickered above a chunky candle sitting within the glass cage.

  For a moment, Adam wondered if he had traveled way back in time, to an era without electricity. But as he made his way farther into town, he saw the homes were the usual type of suburban houses found in many parts of the country: redbrick, two stories, medium garage, white picket fence. The front yards were trimmed; some had pockets of flowers. The place reminded him of his own early childhood, back before he moved to the city with Uncle Henry. He remembered the wide-open spaces, the fresh smells of mowed grass and the neighbor’s sunflowers in the summertime.