The Paths Between Worlds

by Paul Antony Jones

“And after that? What if the Voice decides to stay quiet? What are we supposed to do then?” This from Wild Bill.

  “If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain,” said Bull.

  “We can cross that bridge if and when we ever get to it,” Edward said. “In the meantime, we should all get some rest. We can talk more about this in the coming days.”

  A wave of goodnights echoed over the camp as everyone moved to their quarters. Albert said he wanted to sleep near the fire, something I could understand; its warmth and light instilled the only real sense of security any of us could feel at this point. “Of course,” I said. “Chou and I are right over here.” I pointed back at the lean-to we would be spending the night beneath, Chou already sat cross-legged under its roof.

  I gave Albert a kiss on the top of his head and whispered, “Sleep well,” then joined my newly resurrected friend.

  Thirteen

  The early-morning sun provided little warmth, despite the sky remaining clear overnight. I exhaled pale billowy clouds as I got to my feet and stretched. Around me, the camp was gradually coming to life, gravitating one by one to the campfire. The night had been cool, but not terribly uncomfortable, and we all seemed extraordinarily refreshed despite the stress of the previous day. I thought about the sudden rush of energy I’d experienced during the aurora. I’d felt so energized, so invigorated; like I’d taken a two-week vacation. That initial surge and feeling of well-being had gradually faded, but still, this morning I felt far better than I should have after a night spent on the ground with nothing but a bed of leaves as a mattress. I should have aches in my muscles and pain in my joints, but I felt… great, especially so after Chou’s miraculous recovery.

  I walked to the fire, drawn by its warm currents. Chou was up and had already captured everyone’s attention. Albert sat nearby. As I drew closer, I caught the tail-end of a question Chou was posing Edward.

  “—the axes, saws, hammers and nails I see you and your people using; where did they come from?” she asked.

  Edward took a handful of berries of assorted color from a bowl, his lips stained the same colors as the berries. He swallowed and said, “We found some of them washed up on the beach next to a broken wooden crate. And others came with our people, like Peter and his ax.”

  “I saw things falling from the sky while I was in the water,” I said as I got closer, remembering those first few minutes after arrival. “Apart from people, I mean. There were parts of the bridge I was on when I…” I let my words fade away, not willing to share the manner in which I’d left Earth behind so openly. “Anyway, it was as though whatever process the Voice used to bring us here, couldn’t bring just us here. It brought things that were around us, too.”

  “Yes,” said Evelyn, “I saw that, too.”

  Others nodded in agreement.

  “Do you think the crate washed ashore or do you think it was placed there?” said Chou.

  Edward shook his head. “Hard to tell for sure,” he said. “It was just sitting there. We snagged everything from it.”

  “Might have come from a wreck or maybe it was the contents of an airplane or something,” I said.

  Bull said, “Perhaps it would be wise for us to organize search parties to explore the coast, perchance there are more such crates or loot waiting for us to find. Better we locate them before anyone else does.”

  Edward nodded. “That’s a fine idea, Doctor. We’ll organize a couple of groups soon as we’re done here.” Edward held his words for a moment or two, then said, “And you bring up something that’s been weighing on my mind: there have to be other people somewhere out there. I, for one, saw at least a hundred or more in the water upon my arrival and only a few of those faces are sitting here with us. We need to remember we're not alone on this island. And while all of you are amiable enough, let’s not forget the two men who accosted Meredith’s group and killed their companion as proof that not everyone is going to be as welcoming. It’s only going to be a matter of time before someone wanders into camp or we encounter another group. And while I’m not saying we should treat anyone we meet as an enemy, we need to be cautious. We’ll keep the lookouts posted around the perimeter, and I’ll expect all of you to take your turn in watching over us. If we are going to meet others, best it’s on our terms rather than theirs.” As Edward spoke his gaze moved over each of us. “Now, I need volunteers to form scavenger parties to go search for anything they can find on the beach. Two groups of three should do the trick.”

  Chou looked at me, eyebrows raised. I nodded at her unspoken question.

  “Meredith and I volunteer,” Chou said.

  Edward nodded and smiled. “Who else?”

  “I’ll go vith them,” said Freuchen. He got to his feet and, stretched, the joints of his huge frame audibly popping.

  Benito, Caleb, and Tabitha volunteered for the second group.

  Edward nodded, looking pleased. “Well, that’s sorted then. One group will go clockwise around the island, the other counter. I’d like for you all to lend a hand around the garrison today. That’ll give us time to prepare supplies for you, and you’ll be able to get an early start tomorrow. Okay?”

  We all nodded.

  “Anyone else got anything they’d like to add?’ Edward said. “No? Alright then, let’s get some grub in our bellies and get to work.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?” Edward asked Chou and me as we finished our breakfast of wild berries together. He sat on the log with us, legs outstretched, hands folded in his lap. “If you feel up to getting your hands dirty today, we could use your help around the camp.”

  “Of course,” I said, “what do you need us to do?”

  “I’d say you could help Evelyn, but it looks to me like Albert has already usurped your job.”

  I laughed. Albert had really taken to Evelyn and she to him. She had asked if he would like to help her around camp and the boy had eagerly agreed.

  “So, let’s see what else do we have? We need someone to make sure the laborers all have fresh water. And Bull and Freuchen could use a knot bumper, or, if that’s not to your liking, you could maybe scavenge branches to make sure the fire has enough fuel for the night.”

  I was about to ask what the hell a ‘knot bumper’ was but Chou spoke right over me. “That man, the one setting the stakes for the stockade, what is his name?” She pointed in the direction of the slowly growing perimeter wall of wooden stakes.

  “Jorge? Why?”

  “I would like to help him,” Chou said.

  Edward suppressed a smile. “I’m sure he’d be happy to have your company, but that’s very physical labor, and I don’t think—”

  Chou stood up, reached down, and grasped the end of the log we had been sitting on with both hands and proceeded to lift it off the ground as if she were merely lifting a sofa.

  Edward and I both jumped to our feet as, in three swift movements, she repositioned the ten-foot-long tree trunk into an upright position. I felt my jaw drop; the log must have weighed close to six-hundred pounds if it was an ounce and she manhandled it like it was nothing.

  “I believe I am more than capable of helping Jorge,” Chou said.

  “I… uhhh… I believe you have made your point, Ms. Chou,” Edward said, nodding approvingly at her demonstration of brute strength, his broad smile showing how deeply impressed he was.

  “I concur,” Chou said, lowering the log down into its original position beside the fire.

  “So,” said Edward, “on second thought, why don’t the two of you help Jorge set the posts for the stockade.”

  “I’m down with that,” I said, suppressing laughter that threatened to bubble up from deep in my chest.

  “As am I,” said Chou, straight-faced.

  “Thank you, ladies,” Edward said.

  As he turned to walk away, Chou said, “Edward, wait. I have a question for you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Have any of the group sh
ared what they were doing immediately before their encounter with the Voice with you?”

  “Some,” Edward admitted. “Why?”

  “Would you tell me their stories, please,” her words were more a demand than inquiry.

  Edward gave a little chuckle at Chou’s directness. “Well, seeing as you asked so nicely.” He lowered himself down onto the log. “Let’s see. Benito told us he was a lumberjack working alone in the mountains of Venezuela. The saw he used to section a tree he’d felled hit a knot and he sliced his arm open.” Edward made a cutting motion across his left arm. “He said he was losing a lot of blood and was many miles from his camp and any help. The Voice came to him as he was losing consciousness and asked him if he wanted to live.”

  “Who else?” Chou said.

  “Jorge said he was washed overboard from a fishing boat in a nighttime storm and he was heading to the bottom of the ocean when he heard the Voice. Evelyn drowned too, though that was at her own hand; not something I believe she would want shared, so, if you would be so kind as to keep it to yourselves. Caleb said he would have surely died in the fire that took his home. And Wild Bill said he got sick after being bit by a Rattlesnake while crossing Arizona.” Edward chuckled, “He was a little bit more colorful in his description, of course. And that’s as much as anyone has shared with me, and I’m not the type to put my nose into other people’s affairs if privacy is what they desire. You might want to speak directly with the others about how they got their ticket to Avalon.”

  “And you, Edward? What circumstances led the Voice to ask you?” Chou said, her voice still low.

  Edward’s eyes lost focus for a few seconds before he spoke again. “My regiment had been ordered to bolster our forces defending Ypres—that is, or was, a little village in Belgium. By the time we arrived in mid-April of 1915, there really wasn’t enough left of the place to fit in a matchbox. I’d been ordered out on a reconnaissance mission to verify the location of a Hun artillery battery. Instead, the Huns, or rather their artillery bombardment found me first. I was caught in a barrage and hit by shrapnel—” Edward’s hand unconsciously drifted to the right side of his chest “—and blown off my feet into a shell hole. It’d been raining heavily, and I was up to my neck in mud and muck and my own blood. I tried to pull myself out but the walls of the crater were too soft, and I couldn’t get a grip. Then another shell landed nearby, and the crater wall collapsed, burying me under what I imagine must have been ten feet of mud. I was close to suffocating when I heard the Voice tell me it could save me.” He gave a slow nod to indicate that he'd finished.

  “I am… sorry,” said Chou.

  Edward waved off her reply. “What was one more life in that meat grinder? I saw more death in my months over there than I ever thought imaginable. But I tell you now, this experience…” he shifted his gaze left then right, his eyes doing the pointing as they moved first to the caged sun, then the forest, then to the others working on their tasks, “…it’s changed my view on all of that trouble. Now I have proof that there’s something greater than all the world’s petty struggles and arguments. And I have to wonder whether those lives that were so senselessly cut short aren’t maybe here on this planet, somewhere. It gives me hope.” He gave an emphatic nod, as if to reinforce the sentiment. “Now, I’ve told you what you wanted to hear, why don’t you tell me why you’re so eager to learn our stories?”

  Chou took a swig of water. “Tell me, do you notice a common theme in their stories?” she said.

  Edward looked momentarily confused. “Apart from the obvious one of everyone being moments away from meeting their maker when the Voice spoke to them?”

  Chou nodded slowly.

  I have to admit that I didn’t see any connection other than the one Edward had mentioned.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Edward said, his face suddenly lighting up, “I do see another connection; we all died alone, away from anyone who could have helped us.”

  Chou smiled, then added, “Yes, but more importantly, we all would have died in ways that would have meant there was a very high probability our remains would never have been discovered or recovered or identified. You, Edward, stated that you were buried alive. Wild Bill died alone in the desert. Jorge was lost at sea. Evelyn drowned. Benito died in the forest miles from civilization.” Chou paused then looked at me, and I felt myself flinch as she said, “And Meredith threw herself into the bay at night.”

  “And you? How do you fit into all this? What’s your story, Miss Chou?” Edward said.

  “I was lost in space,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Edward slowly allowed his face to turn toward the blue sky. He pointed his left index finger heavenward. “Up there?”

  Chou smiled. Nodded again.

  “Well, that would certainly put the kibosh on anyone ever finding your body, I suppose.”

  Chou seemed to appreciate the humor in what Edward said because her smile grew wider. “Of course, I cannot back my theory up with proof other than that which you have supplied me, and it is not outside of statistical possibility that the similarity shared by the few people whose stories we know of are just a statistical fluke. The only way to be certain is to gather more stories. And that means I need to speak to more people.”

  “Well,” Edward said, “I’ll leave that up to the individuals concerned. All I ask is that you respect their desire as to whether they want to share their story with you. Some of these people still seem to be coming to terms with how they arrived in this new reality of ours.”

  As Edward turned to walk away, his face was caught briefly in shadowed profile, and some dusty collection of neurons finally connected in my brain. I let out a short, sharp puff of surprise, “Oh, my God!”

  Edward stopped, turned back to look at me, his brow furrowed. “Are you alright, Meredith?”

  I felt a tingling of electricity run up my back and down my arms as goosebumps popped across every inch of my skin. I knew I had recognized Edward from somewhere, but it was only as he had turned away, his face caught in profile that I remembered where exactly that had been. My throat went dry, grew tight, and I had to swallow hard to get it to let the next words out. “Is your full name Edward James Hubbard?”

  Edward blinked. His head jerked slightly, like he was avoiding an invisible bee, then tilted inquisitively to one side. He said, “Yes, it is. How did you—”

  “And before you became a soldier were you a teacher in Manchester, England?” I said, interrupting him. “You were an English teacher, weren’t you?” I stood up and took a step toward him.

  Edward was shocked. “How could you possibly know that?” His expression changed quickly from surprise to one of suspicion.

  I swallowed hard again to try and keep my voice from freezing up, unable to speak, finally, I blurted out “If beauty sets brother against brother and causes empires to fall, is not too high a price placed upon its exquisite head—if jealousy, pain, and death are the currency for loveliness?”

  Edward closed the distance between us in two quick strides that bordered on leaps. He seized my arm just above the elbow, hard enough that I felt the blood begin to slow. He hissed, “Tell me how in God’s name could you know that poem? I’ve never had any of my work published. Never shown a poem to a living soul. Who are you? Answer me!” He yelled the last two sentences loud enough that the rest of the camp would surely have heard him if they had not already moved off to their assignments.

  In the periphery of my vision, I saw Chou step closer, her eyes hard and focused squarely on Edward. “It’s okay,” I said, turning my head long enough to give her a tight smile before turning back to look at Edward.

  “Answer me,” Edward hissed. “Are you responsible for all of this? Are you the one who brought me here?”

  I shook my head. “No… no, I’m not.”

  “Then tell me how you could possibly know any of that information about me?” His voice softened a little. He released his grip on my arm. “Please.”

>   I closed my eyes, allowed myself to relax a little as I reached back into my memory. “When I was in high school, I read a lot of poetry: Tennyson, Wordsworth, Blake, Keats. But my favorite poem by far was written by an Englishman named Edward James Hubbard. It was so good, I memorized it in its entirety. It was called The Maiden; one of your earliest works, I believe. It was one of a hundred of your poems released in an anthology of your work long after your death.”

  Edward’s face turned beetroot red. “I am so sorry,” he said, “It… I’m still getting used to the fact that we are all from different times. While I am incredibly humbled by the fact my work was read by anyone after my death, it makes perfect sense that you would have read it in what would have been my future. I am so very sorry if I frightened you—”

  Now it was my turn to take Edward firmly by his arm. “No, you don’t understand. In my time, you were seen as one of the greatest poets of your generation to write about the horrors of World War I. In my time, after the end of the war you became chair of the English department at Oxford University and you were eventually named Poet Laureate. Edward, in the time I’m from, you survived the First World War. You did not die until 1963.”

  “What?” Edward blurted. “I don’t understand. Are you saying someone stole my identity after the war? My God, that’s an outrageous thing for them to do.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. It wasn’t someone impersonating you, it was you. There were photographs of you in the book, and there was one where you were smiling and turning away from the camera like you just did. That’s what triggered my memory of you. And there were other photographs I’ve seen of you where you were in your uniform; the same uniform you’re wearing now, I’m sure of it. There was a biography at the beginning of your book that said you married a woman named Rebecca, she was your childhood sweetheart. You had kids… children… and… and…”

  I felt Chou’s hand gently touch my exposed forearm and I realized from the horrified look on Edward’s face that I had utterly overwhelmed the poor man, confused him beyond belief with the deluge of information I was forcing on him. I mean, who wouldn’t be confused by some stranger from the future who knows so many intimate details of your life? A life that, in their time had not been cut short by war and one which, from your point of view, still lay ahead.