by N. D. Wilson
Sam would have gladly remained motionless, but Speck began twisting his right arm into a coil on the asphalt, enjoying the warmth. Cindy tugged Sam’s body to the left, trying to sidewind him off the road an inch at a time.
Glory jumped to her feet and threw her arms around the priest.
“I’m so glad you’re here!”
Father Tiempo rocked back a step, and then hooked an arm around her shoulder and gently peeled Glory off.
“We got your note in Tombstone.” Glory shook her head. “Sam didn’t hurt the Earps, but oh, that was so awful. And Tiny stomped on your hourglass.”
Sam wanted to sleep. Or daydream. Anything to shake the memory of what had just happened. But he could hear a radio playing faintly. And an engine running. Slowly, he pulled his arms back in, sat up, and looked behind him. The vast scene of rubble and destruction had vanished, and he was in the middle of an intersection. Two old-fashioned cars were crumpled around each other in a terrible accident. The headlights were still on. The radio was playing inside one of them. Less than a mile away, streetlights glowed over a modern Tombstone, Arizona.
Glory had refocused her attention on the cars, and she was moving carefully toward them. “What happened?” She glanced back at the priest. “We have to help them!”
“They are beyond help,” Father Tiempo said. “Grievous, but that’s why I chose this place and this moment. I am weary and must ration my strength. Death leaves the easiest doorways through time.”
Sam stared at the cars. It was awful, but nowhere near as awful as what he had just seen. “Old Tombstone,” he said. “The Earps?”
“Dead,” the priest said. “And destroyed. Seven thousand souls made that place their home. Only a few hundred survived. The Vulture grows desperate, and now the future has been horribly marred. It cannot be undone if El Buitre lives, and perhaps not even if he is killed. Now stand up.”
“Nice to see you, too.” Sam stood, wincing. He’d banged both knees and an elbow on the road. Cindy lifted his left hand and stared at the priest. Speck tugged his right hand straight down. He liked the ground.
“When is this?” Glory asked. She was still staring at the accident. “That’s so sad. You’re sure we can’t do anything?”
“Nineteen fifty-four.” Father Tiempo limped toward the side of the road. “And I am sure. But you will not be here long. We are waiting for your friends, and they are late.” He looked back at Glory. “From here, I am sending you to 1969. A big year, and with an earthquake exactly where we need one. Do either of you know how to ride a motorcycle?”
“Not really,” Glory said. “But I can ride a four-wheeler.”
“I have no idea,” Sam said. He looked at the cars, at the shapes inside the cars, and then he shut his eyes. But then all he saw was the rolling wave of destruction shattering Tombstone. He heard the screams. He saw the ghostly train tumbling through the ruins, flinging people from the windows, and he opened his eyes again quickly. His heart was still pounding.
When he spoke, his voice was flat, but only so he wouldn’t throw up.
“Why are we here?”
Father Tiempo met Sam’s gaze. “Because you have never been in this moment before and there is no reason for you to be in this moment now. From here, you go elsewhere.” The priest moved down the shoulder of the road into the ditch. “In the book, do you remember El Buitre’s seven hidden gardens?”
“Listen to me,” Sam said. “I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to run. I just ran, and you just saved me, but thousands of people died. And I don’t care about the book. I care about my sister. So why will you be sending me to 1969? She’ll have been dead for almost a century, right? Send me back to when she’s still alive so I can at least try and save her! Everyone gets hurt around me. Just let me save her, and then I promise I’ll face the Vulture and he can do what he wants and stop smashing towns.”
Father Tiempo paused in the ditch and looked up at Sam. His white hair shone. His dark eyes swallowed the starlight. “Do you want to win?” he asked. “Because I want to win, Sam. Not for me. Not for you. I desire the defeat of this evil. I want to stop this man from destroying every life centuries in both directions. And that is why I am going to go die for you in this desert. That is why I am going to stand over your body after El Buitre has destroyed your arms, and I am going to lay down my life years at a time, shortening my very existence, keeping you alive. The years I lay down, I will never get back.”
“I never asked you to do that for me,” Sam said quietly. “I wouldn’t.”
Father Tiempo smiled. “Of course you wouldn’t ask me to. But you need me to. And, more importantly, the thousands who died in the annihilation of Tombstone need me to. And so do the many thousands who live in every city the Vulture will choose to eliminate in the same way. Samuel Miracle,” the priest said, “when I die for you, I am also dying for millions. And you know that I will die, because in your life, I already have. You are here, alive, eager to save your sister. You have survived, you have been . . . equipped. And now you are ready to strike.”
“Equipped?” Sam splayed his fingers and studied his arms. Cindy’s horns threw strange shadows across his hands.
“Yes,” the priest nodded. “Equipped. Protected. Surrounded with friends and allies. All that remained was to find the right time. And I have found it.”
“Allies?” Sam asked. “What allies?”
Headlights crested a hill coming toward them from outside of town. Sam heard gears grind and squeal from a mile away.
“Late allies,” Father Tiempo said. “Allies who cannot be trusted to arrive on time, but allies all the same.”
Glory and Sam stood next to each other on the shoulder of the road and watched a short white bus bounce to a stop beside the car wreck.
“SADDYR” was painted in black letters on the side.
Broad-shouldered Drew was behind the wheel, and he threw the door open.
“Sorry, Pete!” he yelled at Father Tiempo. “Engine trouble. We got here as fast as we could.” He pointed at the car wreck. “Anything we can do?”
“Not this time,” the priest said. “Sadly.”
Sam moved toward the bus door. He looked from Drew to the priest.
“Pete?” Sam asked. “Are you Peter?”
“I am,” the priest said, smiling slightly. “Peter Atsa Eagle Ignatius Tiempo. Your Ranch Brother. And these”—he gestured at the bus—“are the other men who gave up their childhoods to be your brothers, to be with you, to support you, and to surround you as you healed.”
Sam’s jaw fell open and his eyes grew hot as the boys tumbled out, slapped his shoulders, and examined his hands and arms. They laughed at Speck and whistled in disbelief at Cindy’s horns and devil eyes, and when she tensed Sam’s arm and began to rattle, they laughed some more and backed away.
Drew Dill, missing a finger. Flip the Lip. Barto with his wired-together glasses. The brawling redheads, Jimmy Z and Johnny Z. The blond game-players, Matt Cat with his lumpy biscuit face and Sir T with his nose and chin as sharp as creased paper. The hunters, Tiago Lopez with his Mohawk and Simon Zeal with his thick permanent bed-head. Tiago and Simon were the only ones brave enough to touch Sam’s hands and trace the scales up his arms. And finally, smiling Jude with his sharp eyes and curly hair, and a thick notebook under his arm.
The priest smiled. “We are proud to be your brothers, and I am proud to give you my life.”
Sam was stunned. Surrounded by his Ranch Brothers, memories flashed through his mind. Laughing in the Commons, working on the land. Pillow fighting in the Bunk House. But most of all, the faces of the boys as they saved him. All the times they had found him lost in the desert. The times they carried him home. Peter pouring water over his sun-blistered lips.
Sam faced the old priest. “You do look like Peter,” he said, slowly. “But different. Did you really burn down a gas station, or was it all a lie?”
“I hid my appearance a little,” the priest said. “But
it was all true. I’ve burned down a lot more than one gas station. But those stories, and the stories of all our Ranch Brothers, can wait.” The priest grabbed a large clump of dead sagebrush and threw it away. A little motorcycle with a sidecar had been hidden beneath it.
“It is time for our final moves.”
“Are we going back into the past?” Glory asked. “We have to. Sam can’t leave his sister. And the Vulture—”
Father Tiempo climbed onto the motorcycle. He turned a key, and kick-started the engine. Exhaust flowed and the roar drowned out Glory’s angry yelling.
The priest bounced the motorcycle up onto the road. “Triumph” was painted on the side of the gas tank. It was all wrong for the moment. The priest twisted the key back off and the motorcycle died.
“Thank you,” Glory said. She glared at the priest and eyed all the boys. “So are we saving Sam’s sister or not?”
“We hope to,” the priest said. “And so much more. I asked if you remembered the Vulture’s seven hidden gardens.”
“Yes,” Glory said, glancing at Sam. Sam nodded. How could he forget? It had been one of the creepiest parts of the whole book—seven gardens where the Vulture buried his victims so he could always visit them.
The priest gestured at Matt Cat and Sir T, and the blond boys stepped forward.
Matt spoke first. “It took awhile to figure out how the Vulture’s system works, but Pete gave us a lot of the pieces and spent hours explaining the geography of time to us. From there we just puzzled it out. There had to be seven gardens.”
“It’s a lunar thing,” Sir T said.
“Right,” said Matt. “Anyway, they’re all walled and hidden, but they all open onto the dark outside of time. The Vulture can move between them through the outer darkness, and from them, he can step out of the gardens into any moment in history he might choose.”
“He built a prison around us in the desert,” Sam said. “And then he came out of the bottom of a tower.”
“I told you,” Sir T said. His sharp eyebrows rose almost to his hairline and he pointed at Matt. “I told you. From the outside, he has the ability to open—”
Father Tiempo cleared his throat. “I told you both. I’ve seen him do that hundreds of times. Please continue and stay focused.”
Matt saluted. “So from any of his gardens he can travel back to his tower nest and his favorite month in San Francisco. I expect the top of the tower has a doorway into the dark edge of time, as well.”
“Or the bottom,” Sir T interrupted.
“Sure,” Matt said. “A basement is technically possible, but it wouldn’t match his alter ego. He’s a bird.”
Sir T shrugged. “Either way, he has seven sun- and moondials,” Sir T said. “One in each garden. And seven watches in his vest.”
Barto leaned forward, adjusting his glasses and speaking for the first time. “Likely chained to his heart.”
“You’re just guessing and that’s not important,” Matt said. “What’s important is that he enters the gardens from any time, and they open onto the darkness which has no time and from there he can get back to his roost in the 1880s. And in that place, your sister may still be alive.”
“Maybe,” Sir T said.
Matt shrugged. “So if that’s where he kept Millie, then you can reach her through the gardens just as easily right now as one hundred years ago. So 1969 is just as good as any year, but better, because Pete picked a day when a quake should open those garden walls right up.”
“Maybe,” Sir T said.
Matt shrugged again.
Tiago stepped forward, rubbing his Mohawk, glancing from Sam to Glory and down at Sam’s hands. His voice was almost too quiet to be heard over the bus engine, even from three feet away.
“It was our job to find one of the gardens.” He stared into Cindy’s eyes and his voice trailed off.
Sam tucked Cindy under his poncho and Tiago blinked.
“And we did,” he said, backing away. “Simon?”
Bed-head Simon stepped forward and handed Sam a map of San Francisco with a route and location marked in black.
“That’s where we hit him,” Simon said. Tiago nodded.
“We?” Sam asked. That little word sent his hopes rising quickly.
Father Tiempo looked around the group of boys.
“I cannot,” the priest said. He was still straddling the silent motorcycle. “I must get to where I need to be to save your life, Sam. And after I have, there will be fewer of my moments available.”
“Understatement,” Drew said. “We have to get this done ourselves, Sam. Young Pete will come when he can. The plan is simple. These boys and I will hit the garden loud and hard in this year—1954—while you and Glory try to get into the garden in a different time completely. Hopefully, we’ll get his attention and hold it until it’s too late.”
“Too late for who?” Glory asked.
“For whom.” The correction came from Jude, standing in the back of the group beside the redheads.
“Whatever,” Glory said. “Do you have any idea what this guy can do? He just wiped out an entire city from end to end, and we only survived because of Father Tiempo. If you get the Vulture’s attention, and he isn’t there, I don’t think we’ll ever see each other again.”
The boys were all silent.
Father Tiempo shifted his weight on the motorcycle seat. Springs squeaked beneath him. “My brothers know what they are attempting, Glory. They know the possible cost. They know the possible reward. We all do. If William Sharon survives, then the city you saw destroyed will be only one of hundreds like it. With him, it takes only the smallest irritant to provoke annihilation.” The priest looked around as the boys nodded. Drew rolled his thick neck. Jude scribbled in his notebook. “And now we must go. The boys will force El Buitre to defend his lair in 1954. I will set Sam and Glory on a path to strike in 1969. Understood?”
“You’re just sacrificing them,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. Isn’t there some, I don’t know, magical way to change things? Just get Jude to write the story different. He’s right here.”
Jude lowered his notebook, surprised.
“No one has to like it,” the priest said. “But we choose to do it. Even with all that I have seen and known, there is only one way to change history. By living. By dying. We take the risks we must take to be the men and boys we are meant to be.” He smiled at Glory. “And women. Someday, if he survives, Jude will write the story of our living now. But if this goes badly, then he won’t be writing anything at all. Now, if I don’t get to where I need to be to save your life . . .”
“Then I’ll disappear or something?” Sam asked. He sniffed and crossed his arms.
“Of course not. Your soul will be plucked from you and your body will crumple to the ground where you stand. Now say your good-byes and get on the motorcycle.”
“Promise me that this is the best way to save my sister, not just the best way to kill El Buitre,” Sam said.
“I do not know of a better way,” the priest said. “Now get on this motorcycle before you die.”
Flashing red lights were approaching through Tombstone. An ambulance.
“Boys, go!” Father Tiempo commanded. “You know your moment.”
The boys piled back into the bus with nods and slaps and various quiet farewells.
Matt Cat hesitated beside Glory. “So . . . you’ve kept our boy alive. After all this is over, I’d love to share a meal and some conversation.”
Glory flinched in surprise, and then shoved him away with a sneer. “Get on your bus.”
The boys on board all whooped and laughed.
Drew shut the bus door and smashed the engine into gear.
“Oh, hey!” Glory yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Jude! Grammar Boy!”
Jude’s face appeared in the window.
“Whenever it is that you write The Legend of Sam Miracle, if I’m still alive, you run it by me. Got that? I will not let
you screw it up.”
Jude smiled. Drew cranked the bus away from them, bounced it on the shoulder as he turned around, and rumbled quickly away.
Father Tiempo stared at Sam, and Sam stared right back. He still hadn’t gotten on the motorcycle.
“I know you just want me to think about saving the world,” Sam said. “And to you Millie isn’t as important. And I understand. After Tombstone, I do.”
“No!” Glory crossed her arms. “Sam, if you don’t do your best to save her, it’s a terrible story. I read it. I liked Poncho, and I still wanted him to die.”
The priest shook his head. “Glory, this isn’t about living a story that you like. This is about the entire world. And if I don’t get where I need to be . . .”
“Why can’t I do both?” Sam asked. “I don’t want to let my sister die.”
“She already did,” the priest said quietly. “So many times. There is a graveyard filled with the bodies her soul has possessed. And with yours, Sam.” He looked deep in Sam’s eyes, searching. “Sam, so much has gone right this time. So much. I was willing to give my life just for this chance. Your arms, your resolve . . . if you would only trust me, this is the moment when El Buitre could finally fall. This could all end. You could fulfill your purpose. It’s what your sister would want. It’s what she worked for. It’s what I’ve worked for.”
“Last chance,” Sam said. His voice was ice and the rattles quivered against his shoulders beneath his shirt. “What’s the best way for my sister?”
“Sam.” Father Peter Atsa Tiempo closed his eyes, and his voice wavered as he spoke. “I’m sorry. There is no best way for Millie. All ways are bad.”
MILLIE MIRACLE THOUGHT THE ELEVATOR HAD STOPPED descending. The brass cage door wasn’t rattling anymore. She couldn’t hear the whining of the cable or distant hum of the motor. The floor wasn’t shaking beneath her feet. But it was swaying slightly. Rocking as if they were on water.
