by J. Y. Harris
As the two teens entered the woods on the far side of the triangle, the sound of voices became louder. They also could smell wood-smoke, and hear the sound of activity and an occasional burst of laughter. Finally, when they were about thirty yards into the woods, Brad and Kris could see where the sounds and voices were coming from. They stopped to survey the scene.
The trees ended not far ahead, and beyond that was a large flat field. On the near side of the field were some Revolution-era canvas tents and two campfires. Men milled around, some sitting around the fire drinking from tin cups, others cleaning weapons. In short, it looked like every Revolutionary War campground re-enactment that Brad or Kristen Everheart had ever seen.
Running along the camp was a road—well, a track, really, not much more than about four or five feet wide—that lead into the woods off to the side.
“Finally,” she said. “I need to sit down. And maybe there’s better cell reception here than there was back there in the woods.”
She started to head toward the encampment, but Brad grabbed her arm.
“Wait. Something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Kris shook off her brother’s hand. “Look, it’s early on a Saturday morning, and we just got lost in woods we’ve been traipsing through our whole lives. And now we found civilization—well, so to speak. What could be wrong?”
“But I don’t think that is civilization.”
Kristen gave an exasperated sigh. “Again: what are you talking about?”
He gestured to the scene ahead. “What is wrong with that picture?”
“What? Nothing!”
“I don’t recognize any of those guys, do you?”
Kristen looked through the trees at the men. “Well, no. They’re probably just re-enactors from town.”
“Most of whom we know. Where’s Mr. Elliott from the hardware store? Or that guy, Hamilton, who works at the library? And you know Leonard Sidlow would be there, front and center.”
Kristen looked again. Brad was right—she didn’t recognize any of those men, not from town and not from other re-enactments she’d seen. Even Loony Leonard Sidlow, Nerd Supreme at White Marsh High School. He would definitely be there.
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “could they be re-enactors from some other town? Maybe our guys are camped somewhere else.”
“Possible, but I doubt it. Look at them: they look tired, disheveled, unshaven. I mean, I know re-enactors grow beards or let their hair get long sometimes, in order to look historically accurate, but…” Brad shook his head. “These guys don’t look like they just quit shaving for the past week for this event. Hey, look, speak of the devil.”
He pointed to where one soldier was sitting on a large rock, and another one used a pair of large, ancient-looking scissors to trim the man’s hair.
“Wow,” Kristen said, “that guy must be desperate for a haircut. Somehow I don’t think the dude with the scissors works at the Yankee Clipper for his day job.”
Brad apparently wasn’t listening. “Look at their uniforms,” he muttered. “Look how old and dirty and mismatched they are.”
“Yeah, that’s not unusual, right? It’s supposed to be seventeen-seventy-seven. The Continental Army didn’t have a single standard uniform, especially this early in the war. You know that. You know more about this stuff than I do.”
“You’re right, I do,” he said, “but look at them. What kind of re-enactor would let his uniform get all dirty and torn like that? Serious re-enactors either pay good money for their uniform, or make it themselves. And I know these uniforms are supposed to look worn and distressed, but a good re-enactor would never let his uniform look like these do.”
Kris shifted uneasily where she stood, not liking what she was hearing. “So, what are you saying? That these are some sort of uber-re-enactors who don’t believe in showering or folding their clothes?”
Brad took a breath. “No…. I don’t think these are re-enactors—at all.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Not re-enactors? What are you talking about? What else would they be?”
Brad had that intense look he got when he was thinking. “Call me crazy, but… I think this is the real thing.”
“The real thing as in, professional re-enactors?”
“No, the real thing as in the real thing. Those guys don’t look like they’re re-enacting the Revolution. They look like they’re fighting it.”
“Fighting the Revolution. You mean real eighteenth-century soldiers. Redcoats and muskets and Valley Forge and all that. That’s what you think.”
Brad looked at his sister, and Kris was a little afraid not to see a hint of teasing in his face. A few weeks ago he’d had her almost convinced that Chace Crawford was going to be stopping at a nearby mall while he was in Philadelphia for a publicity shoot. But at the last minute Kristen had seen the amused glint in Brad’s eye and knew he was baiting her. She hadn’t spoken to him for a week.
But she didn’t see that look now.
“What, are you serious?” she said, her voice rising. “That’s not possible.”
“That’s what I would have thought fifteen minutes ago. But since then we’ve had a weird fog, a trail that literally disappeared under our feet, a missing playground, and no cell service. If you’ve got a better explanation for all that, I’m all ears.”
Kristen tried to make sense of things. Everything Brad had said was true. By itself, each occurrence he’d mentioned was strange enough. All together, they were just plain weird. Crazy weird.
“Time travel doesn’t exist,” she said, but even she knew she was trying to convince herself as much as argue with her brother. “You know more about science than I do, but come on, this whole Back to the Future stuff—it’s not possible. Is it?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, fifteen minutes ago I wouldn’t have thought so.”
Kristen shrugged. “So, what do we do now? Regardless of what century we’re in, we’re still stuck in the woods. We can’t just stand here for two hundred and thirty years, or… whatever. We’ve got to do something.”
“You’re right. We need to find out what’s going on, one way or another. Maybe I’m wrong and this is all one huge set of strange coincidences. But either way, we need a game plan to—." He stopped suddenly and put up a hand. “Do you hear that?” he whispered. “I think I hear something.”
Kristen heard it too: a rustling in the woods from someplace behind them. It was too loud to be a rabbit or a squirrel, and even a deer would have been quieter.
“I see something!” she replied in a whisper of her own. “Over there, heading toward the soldiers’ clearing. Somebody wearing a cloak, I think.”
It was hard to see through the trees. Even though it was autumn and a lot of the leaves had fallen, the woods were still pretty dense.
“It’s not a man’s cloak. That’s a girl—or a woman. Well, maybe it’s time to find out where we are. And when.”
She grabbed Brad’s arm as he started to move. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Look, you just said we have to do something. So, I’m doing something.”
“Yeah, I just hope it’s not something stupid,” she muttered.
Kristen followed her brother through the woods as he moved to intercept the woman. It was hard to walk quietly among the trees and on all the leaves that had fallen, so she and Brad didn’t even bother to try. As a result, Kris could tell that the other person heard them, and stopped to see who was approaching.
As the siblings got closer, they could see the person was indeed a woman, but she was a young woman, probably close to their own age. She was of average height, with brown eyes and long light-brown hair which could stand a good brushing, and a bonnet whose strings were tied around her neck hung loosely down her back in a way that Kristen had seen on reruns of “Little House on the Prairie.” The young woman had obviously been travelling a good distance, as her cheeks were pink from the exertion; also, the bottom of her green
dress was dirty and her brown cloak had burrs and leaves stuck to it.
However, what really dismayed Kristen—and scared her, too, frankly—was the girl’s shoes. They were heavy, boxy, and supremely uncomfortable-looking. Kris had heard that in the eighteenth century, shoes were not made for the right or left foot; they were both shaped the same. Interchangeable. They were very clunky-looking. No twenty-first century girl, re-enactor or not, would be caught dead with a pair of these so-called shoes on her feet.
“Good day,” the girl said, smiling uncertainly at these two strangers—no doubt crazy-looking—who’d come rushing through the woods to stand before her.
Brad didn’t say anything. Kristen thought she heard some “ers” and “hmms” come out of him, but so far, nothing useful. For someone who was trying to find out what’s going on, he was going about it awfully strangely.
“Hi,” Kris said, since one of them had to say something intelligent. “We’re very glad to see you. We’re glad to see anyone.”
By now her brother seemed to have found his voice. “Yes, this is a fortuitous meeting.”
Kristen had to keep her jaw from dropping. ‘Fortuitous’? Who uses the word ‘fortuitous’? Who under the age of fifty, that is.
Brad didn’t seem to notice his sister’s look as he continued. “We’re wondering if you can help us. Answer a question or two. We seem to—er, that is, we seem to have become—”
“We’re lost,” Kristen blurted out. This time Brad did glare at her in exasperation. “What?” she retorted to him. “We are.”
After another irritated look, Brad continued. “Yes, actually we have become disoriented and could use some direction.”
The girl smiled again. “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “Whither are you bound?”
‘Whither are we bound?’ Kristen thought to herself. Good question. Should we take that literally, and tell her where we were heading, physically, in terms of actual real estate? Or maybe we should correct the girl’s question and instead try to tell her when we were headed; that is, what year we want to end up in?
“Well,” Brad said to the young woman, obviously thinking quickly, “we’re trying to get to—er—Flourtown.”
Now it was Kristen’s turn to stare at her brother. Flourtown? Really? Why would they want to go there? Especially in these blasted colonial get-ups.
“I’m headed in that general direction myself, to the mill,” the girl said, showing them some empty burlap-looking sacks she’d been holding—as if that was supposed to mean something to Kristen and Brad. “If you’d like, I see no reason why we can’t all walk together.”
She continued in the direction she’d been heading, and the Everhearts fell into step with her. “By the way, my name is Rebecca. Rebecca Darrow. May I know your names as well, since we may be travelling together?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. I’m Brad Everheart and this is my sister Kristen.”
“Nice to meet you,” Rebecca replied, “although….”
“What is it?” Brad asked. “Is something wrong?”
“N-no. No, I’m sure there’s not. It’s just—I’ve never seen sacks or bags like those that you wear. Such strange material. And with words and designs on them!”
Uh-oh, Kristen thought. She’s talking about my backpack and Brad’s messenger bag. They’re new, they’re modern, totally twenty-first century. Straight from the Trailsman Outfitter store. This chick doesn’t know what they are; she’s never seen anything like them before in her life. Between this and the shoes….
We’re screwed.
“They’re, um, they’re a new material,” Brad said. “We just got them. They’re from a place called Franklin Mills Mall.”
Rebecca frowned. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it far from Philadelphia? Or is it in your home country?”
“I wish Franklin Mills was my home country,” Kristen said before she could stop herself. “But our family is actually from Germany.”
“Prussia,” Brad corrected her. “It’s called Prussia these days, remember?”
Kristen rolled her eyes. “Of course. Whatever was I thinking?”
Rebecca smiled. “My family is from Ireland.”
“Yes, I thought I noticed an accent.”
“Did you now? You should hear my mother. She and da came over the water after they were wed, so they still speak strongly with the Irish brogue.”
Kristen felt like she was in a dream. Actually it was more like a nightmare. She would give anything to see Ashton Kutcher and some camera guys jump out of the woods and yell “Punk’d!”
Not likely, though. With Kris’s luck the only ones jumping out of the woods would be natives, with tomahawks drawn.
“Why are you walking through the woods?” Brad asked. “We saw some soldiers in a clearing back there—”
“No,” Rebecca interrupted. “I’m staying away from the encampments. At least until I reach Green Valley.”
“Wait, I thought you were going to Flourtown?”
“I am,” Rebecca replied. “But Green Valley is on the way.”
“No, it’s not,” Brad insisted. “Green Valley isn’t all that far from Flourtown, but it’s not on the way.”
Rebecca stopped. “For someone who’s lost, you certainly seem to know where things are.”
“My brother knows all sorts of trivia,” Kristen broke in. “Batting averages, football statistics, physics equations—you name it, and if it’s useless and geeky, he knows it.”
The other girl looked at Kristen quizzically. “I don’t know any of those things you mention; I don’t even know what they are. But as I said, you do seem to know a lot about what’s nearby for someone who claims to be lost.”
“Don’t worry,” Brad replied. “I just like to look at maps, which is how I know about Green Valley. But right now I think you’re the one who knows more than either one of us.”
They walked a little further and Brad spoke again. “So why are you staying away from encampments?”
“Because I’m in a hurry. Most of the time when you come across soldiers, they want to talk and ask what news you have, what’s the latest from Philadelphia, is there any word from New York or elsewhere. I don’t have time for idle conversation. My mother charged me with a task, and I must hurry.”
“Yeah, gotta get that flour. Heaven forbid the pies and biscuits don’t get made on time,” Kristen muttered. “Don’t want to jeopardize the whole colonial infrastructure with some tardy baked goods.”
Brad shot her a dirty look, which Kristen ignored.
“So, is there a reason you’re walking through the woods, instead of, say—oh, I don’t know, on a nice, flat road?”
Rebecca turned and smiled at Kristen. “I admit it may seem strange, but it’s actually quicker this way. It’s a more direct route, and I don’t have to worry about stopping at each patrol checkpoint. Even though I have a pass, it’s still easier to avoid them.”
Brad and Kristen looked at each other. “A pass?” Brad repeated. “What kind of pass?”
Rebecca looked at them, her brow furrowed. “The kind of pass that gets me through the patrols. Don’t you have a pass? The royal army won’t let anyone travel outside of Philadelphia without one.”
Brad smiled. Kristen knew that smile. It was the one he used when he was trying to talk his way into something: a movie on a school night; borrowing the car; pretending ‘War Quest America’ is rated for ages fourteen and up, instead of eighteen and up.
In this case, Brad was trying to talk his way out of something. “Actually, we don’t have a pass,” he said. When Rebecca looked at him in alarm, he continued. “We didn’t come from Philadelphia. We came from—er, Falls Village.”
Their companion looked at them uncertainly. “Aren’t there soldiers there as well? I understood the British held all of Philadelphia and the surrounding area.”
“Yes, the British are there, but there are no officers issuing passes. It’s just a small outpost… it’s not a city like Philad
elphia. The villagers are very scattered into the countryside.”
Rebecca still looked skeptical, and Kristen was afraid that Brad was going to try to ‘explain’ further. Stop talking, she thought, trying to send a mental message to her brother. Don’t oversell. Just keep your mouth shut and leave it at that.
To her surprise he seemed to have read her mind and didn’t say anything further.
Kristen thought it was time to change the subject. “So, do you have any family members who are fighting?” Normally she would have used the phrase ‘in the military,’ but other than its similarity to the word ‘militia,’ she didn’t know if Rebecca would recognize this use of the word. And she certainly couldn’t ask about specific branches of the military; they were about a hundred and thirty years too early for the Air Force, the Navy wasn’t more than a handful of volunteer ships, and ditto for the Marines. That left only the Army—and what was here was hardly the organized, well-trained, well-equipped fighting force that Kristen had heard about all her life.
Of course, Rebecca Darrow didn’t know any of that. “Yes,” she answered, “my brother William is with the 2nd Pennsylvania. Right now they’re bivouacked nearby.”
“Oh? How old is he?”
“Turned eighteen last May.”
Wow, Kristen thought, just about a year older than Brad. She tried to imagine Brad going off to war. Of course, boys did that all the time in her time, too, joining one branch of the military or another right out of high school. Girls too, for that matter. It was hardly an uncommon thing. Probably some of her own class members would enlist after graduation.
But if they did, they would sign up, have a few weeks, or even months, before reporting for duty, and then go off to a six- or eight-week training camp to get in shape and get accustomed to the military lifestyle. After that they’d probably get assigned somewhere else for more specific training. Bottom line: as far as Kristen knew, it would be months before any new soldiers got deployed to Iraq, or Afghanistan, or wherever their duty station was to be, whether it’s a place where there’s ‘action’ or not.
