by Rima Jean
No words were spoken between us as we cut through the waves toward Salt Cay. I barely blinked in the salty wind, abruptly aware that this was one of my last days in the eighteenth century, maybe even on this earth. 350 days from Time Zero. Today was day 349. This was it.
This is it.
I looked back at the Royal Rover on impulse, but the ship was already hidden by the reefs, tucked protectively in the curved arm of some nameless islet. Howel’s ship. Howel’s men. Howel’s world. I was about to leave it forever. If tears escaped my eyes, they were immediately lost in the wind, instantly dried to my cheeks along with the spray of the sea. I reassured myself that it mattered little – he was gone. All that was left of him was the stuff of legends. I squeezed my eyes shut and grit my teeth. May my memories of him never fade, so long as I live!
I turned suddenly, feeling his eyes on me. Not Roberts’ eyes, but Sam’s. They glided from me to the horizon easily, and for a moment I believed he hadn’t been watching me at all. He, like the other pirates, had avoided speaking to me more than was necessary. I was afraid I’d lost his friendship by betraying him and by getting his leader killed, but he showed no signs of resentment or anger, merely indifference. His scarred face was impossible to read, and I resigned myself to a friendless existence until my return to the twenty-first century.
While every fiber in my being yearned to go back to my time, however, something indefinable nagged me. Something… And now, as I sat in the boat, wondering if Sam had been watching me, that something became louder behind the noise of my thoughts.
I had no time to dwell on it. We hopped out of the boat and into the shallow waters around the cay, clambering over the jagged coral in our thin-soled shoes. Roberts instructed Sam to wait by the boat while he took me into the sparse foliage further inland.
“May I speak to the nwanyi for a moment, Captain?” Sam asked before we could venture away from him.
Roberts nodded, folding his arms and waiting. He was not going anywhere. Sam seemed unperturbed by this, and looked upon me kindly. “Nwanyi, I know you are leaving us, and I wanted to give you something for your journey home.” He handed me a worn leather pouch in the shape of a square. It was sewn shut and hung from two knotted strings, like a necklace. As I took it from him, I heard the clinking of several small objects within the pouch.
“What’s inside?” I asked, looking for an opening to the pouch.
“It is a talisman,” Sam replied. “Sealed within are magical tokens and words to protect you. It is their existence, not your ability to see them, that makes them so powerful.”
I traced the tokens beneath the soft leather with my thumb, feeling myself choke up. It was one of the nicer things anyone had done for me. I felt the guilt for tricking him wash over me, and I met his eyes anxiously. “Thank you. I… I’m so sorry…”
Sam interrupted me firmly. “Wear it.” As I tied the talisman around my neck, Sam turned to Roberts and nodded, then stepped away.
“Come then,” Roberts said to me, clearly eager to be done with this whole business. I stumbled behind him, dragging my feet through the thick underbrush and trying to keep up with his brisk pace. Roberts stopped in a particularly dense area and began clearing away the shrubs. I watched as he pushed aside a large rock, then, on hands and knees, began to dig. After a moment, he looked back at me, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. “Some help would be appreciated,” he said dryly.
I got down on my knees and grabbed at the earth and sand with my fingernails. “What are we looking for?” I asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
Roberts flashed me a lopsided grin. “Buried treasure.”
Buried treasure indeed. Roberts’ Navy SEAL gear began to emerge from the sandy earth, piece by piece. I found myself feeling frenzied before all of this cutting-edge 2022 survival equipment: utility rope, first aid kit, small flashlight, compass, blanket, matches (dear God, matches!), pocket knife… I looked at the man beside me in dazed wonder. He’d had all of this invaluable equipment here, all of this time. And yet, he had lived and struggled like one of this era, simply to see if he could.
Roberts met my gaze, his eyes as unreadable as ever. “Now,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a sweep of his wrist, “we build you a raft.” He smiled humorlessly. “And then I am nearly done with you.”
He worked quickly and efficiently, using the few tools at his disposal. Roberts rolled up the sleeves of his worn cotton shirt and tied back his hair with a dirty kerchief. While the fancy damask and jewels were absent for the occasion, that silver dragon charm remained around his neck. I wondered idly about it, about its significance to him, as I watched him work. He used a small machete to smooth out dried pieces wood, bamboo, and palm fronds. He lashed them together securely with the utility rope while I fidgeted nervously, biting my fingernails.
“I won’t last fifteen minutes on that thing,” I finally said, aware that he was nearly done.
Roberts dusted himself off and replied, “You only need it to get you into the portal. After that, not even a yacht could help you. That’s what the life preserver is for.”
I stared blankly at the small raft, my eyes glazing over. “I’m scared,” I said softly. “I’ve been in the eighteenth century for a year. I have no idea what’s on the other side, if I even belong there anymore. Do I belong in any era anymore?” He didn’t stop working, and I said quickly, my tone insolent, “Yes, I’m a woman and I’m scared. Men get scared too. The difference is that women aren’t too proud to admit it.”
Roberts straightened and smiled at me. “I’m never scared.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not courage, by the way. Courage is overcoming your fear. What you are is completely, utterly deranged.”
To my surprise, Roberts laughed. And for once, it wasn’t that sardonic chuckle he’d given me before – it was a real laugh, complete with snort. I stared at him, my eyes wide, and said, “Oh my God. Are you laughing? The man may have a soul after all!”
Roberts composed himself and mumbled, “The things that come out of your mouth…” His brow furrowed, and his expression returned to one of pensiveness. “You’ll likely have to remain on the raft for several hours, waiting for the portal to open. As you know, P54 opens under certain weather conditions – in the form of a thunderstorm – and remains open for a very short amount of time. Maybe an hour, at most.” He paused, then gestured to me. “Help me carry this to the beach.”
Although I held one end of the raft, I wasn’t carrying it at all – Roberts bore the weight of everything easily. When we reached the seafront, Roberts pointed to a tower of rocks that was clearly manmade. He said, “You will see the clouds begin to gather. They’ll come at you fast, so you need to be ready to go as soon as you see them. Using the compass, you will want to head due east, 400 meters from the stack of rocks. Be sure to continually orient yourself to the shoreline in case the currents take you off your course.”
I nodded. “What do I do if – when – I’m knocked off the raft?”
Roberts smiled. “Try not to drown.”
I shut my eyes. “Great. Thanks.”
When everything seemed ready, Roberts put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. “Well, it looks like I’m done here…”
Don’t leave me, for the love of God! I wanted to shout. But I swallowed the words and looked around frantically. “Wait…”
“Sabrina,” Roberts said softly. “Control your fear. It was either meant to be, or it wasn’t.”
I felt the tears forming, despite my best efforts. I nodded. “You’re right.”
“Then,” Roberts said, looking uncomfortable and ready to leave, his eyes scanning the horizon, “I’ll be off. Take care of yourself.” Without another word, my black pirate turned and trudged back up the rocky beach, his strong legs carrying him with purpose.
That’s it. I was alone now. I looked at the raft, at the bundle of supplies I’d be carrying with me. I sat down on the ground beside it and d
rew my knees to my chest. Sam’s talisman pressed against my thighs comfortingly. My eyes focused on the sky and the delicate clouds that floated within it. I was exhausted now, having spent all of my nervous energy over the course of the day. The breeze had died down, and the mugginess made me drowsy. My eyelids drooped.
It didn’t look like there would be a storm anytime soon…
I’m not sure how much time passed before a rumble awoke me with a start. A single ominous patch of clouds was approaching, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Shit, shit, shit! Am I late? How long is it going to take me to row 400 meters? Wait, how far is 400 meters? What the hell? Am I just supposed to know this crap off the top of my head?
As I struggled to get my little raft into the open sea, the winds began to pick up. I clutched the compass in my fist, the notched bevel pressing into my fingers. As I struggled against the undertow, I looked back at the landmark Roberts had made. From a distance, it looked like a… Ha! A phallic symbol. How appropriate.
The rain began coming down, slowly at first, then hard. 400 meters. Due east. I could barely hold on long enough to peer through the rain at the compass. I couldn’t see the phallus anymore. What had Roberts been thinking? Christ, what had I been thinking? I wasn’t going to be able to do this.
The compass flew from my hand and disappeared in the darkened waves as I dug my fingers into the sides of the raft. The sky above was that other-worldly sky I remembered, the clouds reaching down to the earth, obscuring my view of anything but their own supernatural incandescence.
It was then that the raft flipped over, and I watched, with surprising resignation, as the rough, tightly-bound beams came down on me.
This was it.
Chapter Forty-One
What has Roberts done?
What was that smell? No, it wasn’t a smell… It was a lack of smell. How strange. The air was so… sterile.
“What has Roberts done?”
“Stop asking that. It hardly matters now. The important question is, ‘Who is she?’”
The voices were American. That was a good sign. I opened my eyes and several anxious faces came into focus, all hovering around me. Two men in uniform. A woman in a lab coat. The walls a blinding white, the bed a ridiculous soft. I looked at the closer of the two men, a bald man in his forties with bushy eyebrows and an impatient expression on his face. I whispered, “Is it 2022?”
The man bent toward me, his eyes wide. “Yes. Yes it is. What year did you come from?”
The other man approached excitedly. “Where is Roberts?”
The first man spoke again, his voice louder. “What year are you from?”
I flinched, and the woman in the white coat squeezed her way between us. “Give her a chance to recover, gentlemen. She’s been through a lot.” The woman was Asian, with thick black hair and a soothing voice. She smiled at me as she took my vitals. “You have three broken bones in your left leg. You are malnourished, underweight, have anemia, mild scurvy, scabies, fleas, and lice.” The doctor shook her head. “It’s as though you’ve been living…”
…among pirates? I thought, raising my eyebrows.
“…in the wild,” she finished, glancing at the two men behind her. “Now gentlemen, I realize that you have many questions for her, but please remember that she’s sick and probably in shock.”
“I’m not in shock,” I croaked, licking my lips and attempting to shift myself. Ouch. Major ouch. I winced and continued, trying not to hold my breath. “I’m Sabrina Granger. I… went missing in 2011.”
The men exchanged looks. “Where have you been?”
I narrowed my eyes at them. “Who are you? You know Roberts – are you SEALs as well?”
After ensuring that the doctor and her nurses were gone, the bald man approached my bed. “How much did Roberts tell you?” he asked.
My leg hurt. I said, “He told me all of your classified information. P54 and all that.”
The bald man glanced back at his colleague, who was tapping away at what looked like a cell phone. “Yep, found her,” the second guy said. “Sabrina Granger, born Sabrina Beauchamp, 1978. Attorney at Cotts & Beaker, LLP. Husband Jake Granger, daughter Sophie. 2011, fell off a yacht in the Bahamas during a storm, probably in a drunken stupor, body never found. Presumed dead.”
I scowled. “What! Drunken stupor? Who said that?”
The bald man gazed at me in wonder. “Where did you go?”
I sighed. Screw it. It didn’t matter who he was. “Seventeen-eighteen. I was there until August of 1719.”
The man moved closer, his eyes on me but his mind clearly elsewhere. “Seventeen-eighteen. My God. What did you do there for a year?”
“I hung out with pirates,” I replied. The second man snorted, as if I’d said something funny. I tried to move again, felt the sharp pain race through my leg again. I winced. “Please,” I said. “My family… Can you tell my family I’m here? I need to see them.”
“Yes,” the bald man said, coming back from his thoughts. “But first… We need to discuss some things.”
His name was Dr. William Noakes, and he was the Director of Research for the Naval Research Laboratory. He had been one of several scientists working closely with John Roberts on P54. Roberts, he said, had left an audio recording in which he said he would return at the next P54 occurrence, so the Navy had been waiting that day I came crashing back to the future.
“For some reason, he didn’t come back,” Noakes said, “but sent you in his place. You, Mrs. Granger, are now a walking piece of highly classified information.”
They’d been expecting Roberts. Roberts had sent me. I let my head fall back against the pillows. What a fool I was, thinking Roberts had sent me back from the kindness of his heart. He’d sent me back to finish his job for him. “I want to see my family,” I said again.
Noakes frowned. “Mrs. Granger, I don’t think you realize what’s happening here. This is a matter of national security. If you tell anyone the truth about where you’ve been, you are endangering yourself – and your family as well.”
My body tensed, my leg throbbed. “Is that a threat?”
“Call it what you like.” He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “What you know, where you’ve been… It’s knowledge over which wars are fought, power over which innocent men die.”
I glared at him. “What’s your point?”
“My point,” Noakes replied, “is that you would serve your country well by helping us, by telling us what you know. And, at the very least, by keeping quiet about this entire experience to everyone else.”
I closed my eyes and cursed Roberts to hell in my mind. For the third time, I said, “I want to see my family.”
“I understand,” Noakes said with a smile that he probably intended as kind, but came across as forced. He turned and stepped toward his colleague, and the two of them conferred in low voices for a few minutes. Then Noakes looked back at me and said, “Your family may come and visit you. But I’ll be back before the hospital releases you, Mrs. Granger.”
I turned my head away. “Oh good,” I said dryly. “I was afraid you’d go to hell.”
They left me alone, but I couldn’t sleep. And even though the food the nurse brought smelled good enough, I had no appetite. (I did, however, eat the dessert – a chocolate brownie with frosting – and thought I had died and gone to heaven.) I stared in awe at the television screen above my bed, at the gizmos and gadgets that beeped and blinked at me. I didn’t even know where I was. I peered out the window, at the palm trees, the glittering skyscrapers in the distance, the BMWs and Mercedes parked in the lot below. I had to be in Miami.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Sophie. She’d be all grown up now. I’d missed everything. I tried reminding myself that I was lucky to see her again, to be given the chance to develop a relationship with her at all. I was a shitty mother to the child Sophie, but maybe I could be a good friend to the woman Sophie.
I fidgeted restlessly, wondering where th
e remote control to the television was. There was only so much All My Children (Christ! Was that show still running in 2022?) I could take. Strange, how sedentary people’s lives were these days. How so unbelievably different their priorities were. How would I get used to this again, particularly with Noakes and his Navy cronies on my ass? How would I keep myself from slumping into a deep, dark depression?
I twisted my head to the side in frustration, willing myself to think of something else. That was when I saw the neatly folded clothes and leather pouch. The talisman sat atop my dirty, ratty slops, its strings carefully coiled on top. I leaned carefully from the bed, my hand outstretched, and grasped it. As I pulled myself back, grunting from the effort, the tokens that had been inside the pouch fell to my lap. I looked at the pouch in surprise to see that it had been cut open. I cursed aloud. Those jerks! They’d cut open my talisman.
I lifted the two tokens gently and examined them in my palm. They were oval-shaped and made of a soft stone. Both were inscribed with roughly-scrawled Latin letters, which caught me off guard. One token contained an inscription that was unintelligible to me, while the other read: Liberi.
I stared. That’s odd. That wasn’t an Igbo word. What had Sam said? Magical words to protect me… Their existence, and not my ability to see them, made them powerful. I scratched my head. This didn’t seem to fit, for some reason.
As I pondered the tokens, the door opened. I looked up to see the faces of my past: Jake, tall, dark, and handsome as ever, even if he was a bit softer around the middle and a bit grayer around the temples; behind him, Tanya and Sky, both still attractive, Sky a bit too pudgy, Tanya a bit too cosmetically-enhanced; and finally, peering timidly around her father’s shoulder, a beautiful young woman with large blue eyes and soft brown hair.
