Time Travel: Recent Trips

by Paula Guran

  Ralph and Sylvie were married in Wessex in 1442, Ralph's dental glory concealed by his fake teeth. Sylvie, inveterate time-traveler that she was, convinced him they should live in the timestream, giving them a sort of temporal immortality. And this is where Ralph, who was, after all, an engineer, not a physicist, failed to anticipate the effect of his actions.

  Time does not fly like an arrow, it turns out. It just lies there, waiting for something new to happen. So when Ralph Drumm showed up—completely inappropriately—in the past, that past changed—the past healed itself—so that he had always been there. He acquired ancestors, was born, grew to adulthood—to Ralph's exact age in fact—and his body just happened to be in the exact place where Ralph's time-shadow showed up.

  Time travel changes the past as well as the future: time is, in fact, an eternal present when viewed from outside the timestream.

  So, as Ralph and Sylvie moved from time to time, they created more and more shadows of themselves in the timestream. As they had children—one, two, three, many—and took them about, the timeshadows of the Drumm children were generated and multiplied. Each shadow was as real as the original. Each shadow lived and breathed . . . and bred.

  Although they were innocent of any ill intent, Ralph and Sylvie Drumm changed the flow of the stream of time in a way more profound than could be accomplished by any single action, no matter how momentous its apparent effect. Their genetic material came to dominate all of human history, an endless army of dark-haired, blue-eyed Caucasians with perfect teeth. They looked the same. They thought the same. They stuck together.

  And this is why we, the last remnants of a differentiated humanity, are waiting here today in Wessex, in 1440—to defend our future from the great surge of the Drummstream. This time, they will not escape us.

  NUMBER 73 GLAD AVENUE

  Suzanne J. Willis

  "What time does the clock have, Charlie?" Mary looked left, dark, bobbed hair brushing her shoulders. She heard him mutter then carefully shut the doors, locking the timepieces away, before walking around to face her, his little tin feet clicking softly against the wooden floor.

  "Twelve May 1923. Six p.m."

  She looked down at Charlie as he packed the powders and glass vials, which were no bigger than her thumbnail, into the black leather doctor's bag, before climbing in and settling into the spare space at the side. At twelve inches tall, he just fit inside, with a whisker of room between his head and the bag's brass clasps. "Comfortable?" she asked.

  "I'll be better when we've arrived. Let's get going." He clapped his hands together then waved as she shut him in.

  Mary walked down the street. Silver waves of time flowed around her in a shimmering cascade as the buildings, the path, the people disappeared or grew or shrank into their new lines as required. Each step carried her quite gradually from 1852 to 1923, the bag clenched firmly in her hand, and she gave a little shiver. It's so different, she thought. All the beautiful clean lines, the geometric shapes of the buildings fronted with sunbursts and arching curves: the simple luxury of it all. Visiting the twenties—whether from the past or the misty future—never ceased to amaze her. There was something so fresh and almost, well, bouncy about it. It was an era in which Mary felt revived, which was no easy feat given that she and Charlie were constantly scissoring back and forth between the decades, centuries, epochs.

  It had been so long now, Mary had quite forgotten how their journey back and forth through time was supposed to end. She shook that thought away; better to let these things work themselves out.

  The air stilled and she looked around. Horse-drawn carriages had given way to automobiles, sleek and chrome, slinking down the road. A shiny brick-red model passed by, the jaguar in mid-leap on the hood shining under the late afternoon sun. The driver whistled at Mary and tipped his hat as she smiled back.

  "What is that infernal racket?" came Charlie's muffled voice from inside the bag.

  Mary listened for a moment. There it was—the unmistakable sound of jaunty pianos and sexy, snaking trumpets. She realized she was tapping her foot.

  "It's jazz, Charlie, you old stick-in-the-mud. And I quite like it."

  He mumbled a reply.

  "It's strange, though. Today doesn't feel terribly important. There's usually someth—"

  "Number 73 Glad Avenue," was the exasperated response from the bag.

  "Right you are, Charlie."

  Number 73 was set on a huge expanse of land fronting the river. Geraldine, their employer for the evening, led Mary into the front room that overlooked the lawn rolling down to the river bank, a dark emerald in the dying light.

  "And here's the bar." Geraldine pointed to the buffet unit in the corner. "Walnut, with marble top, if I'm not mistaken? And chrome trim."

  Geraldine nodded. "We had it shipped all the way from New York, you know. There's not another one like it in the world."

  "It's beautiful. And quite perfect for what we have in mind. I hope I don't seem immodest, but you couldn't have chosen a better hostess. You and your guests are in for a treat," Mary smiled. "I do so love a good party, Geraldine."

  "You don't appear to have brought much with you, dear," Geraldine pointed at the black bag.

  "There's not a lot I need, as you'll see." Mary opened the clasps and brought out a miniature replica of the walnut and marble unit, placing it in the center of the real one.

  Geraldine looked shocked. "But how could you know?"

  "Ah, now, a magician never reveals her secrets." With that, she pulled Charlie from the bag and stood him up behind the little bar, where he looked for all the world like a china doll with twinkling blue-glass eyes and impressively thick moustache. Mary smoothed his ginger hair.

  "He's just adorable," Geraldine said.

  "And quite the star of the show, as you'll see. I'm fine to see to things here, if you'd like to get ready for your guests. Of course, we do require payment up front . . . "

  "Oh, naturally, yes." Geraldine rummaged through the drawers of a dark bureau on the other side of the room. For the sake of discretion, Mary turned and walked over to the tall, arched windows. She looked at the long wooden jetty. A woman sat at the end, silhouetted against the sunset-flamed river, her toes skimming the water.

  "Beautiful at this time of day, isn't it?"

  Mary smiled. "It's like something out of The Great Gats—" she stopped herself. That's not until 1925!

  "From what, dear?"

  "Oh, nothing. Who is that sitting on the end of the jetty?"

  "That's my older sister, Freya. She's a funny thing, keeps quite to herself and . . . but I'm rattling on, here you go." Geraldine held out a gold pocket watch; it swung gently on the end of its chain and caught the last rays of the sun. "It hasn't worked for years, but it does pain me to part with it. It was my grandfather's. Still, you come so highly recommended." She paused, glancing at Mary suspiciously. "If you don't mind my saying so, it does seem like an odd price . . . "

  With a beatific smile, Mary reached out for the watch. As metal and flesh came into contact, the watch shivered, its gold sparking in the gathering dark. She shifted it in her hands: it warmed to her touch. Click. The cover sprang back to reveal the ornate hands slowly journeying around its pale face. The second hand was missing.

  "Well, now, look at that. It seems to be working after all. Even has the right time." She waved her free hand at Geraldine, dismissing her confusion. "Which means you must go and get ready."

  Once Geraldine was gone Charlie stretched and yawned on the bar, blinking his glassy eyes. He jumped into the bag, rummaged about then jumped out again with several vials. He began to mix the powders and fluids together in a bell-shaped bottle, humming softly to himself.

  The jetty drew Mary's gaze again. Freya was walking along it towards the shore, leaving a trail of silvered footprints shining like old stars.

  Mary smiled at the women—flappers, she remembered—in their feathered headpieces and beaded frocks; at the men in their razor
-sharp suits as they lit cigarettes in long holders for their paramours. Her own close-fitted dress was black, long-sleeved, innocuous; the only feature was a row of silver buttons down her back. But the colors the flappers wore! And the fabrics! The delicate, diaphanous skirts; the trailing ribbons from dropped waists; the long strings of jewels, darlings, the jewels.

  The parquetry floor shook and the chandeliers tinkled as the guests shook and shimmied and stomped to the jazz band, its piano, trumpet, and Sharkey Malone's whiskey-voice jumping across the night. No one looked lonesome in a corner, or was without one of Charlie's fabulous gin martinis or old-fashioneds. Everything was going to plan.

  "I would honestly love to know how that little barman doll works. He seems so like-life . . . lifely . . . um, real." Geraldine had crept up behind Mary and slung an arm around her shoulder. Her voice was a little slurred and her headpiece of peacock feathers and jet sat askew.

  "He's always a hit. But now, I think, would be a good time for the main event, seeing as the band's about to break." She signaled to Sharkey Malone, who pulled a worn little hipflask from his pocket and toasted in reply. "If you'll just get everyone to—"

  "Darlings. My lovely katty-kits. No, wait—my kitty cats . . . " Geraldine giggled and swayed as all eyes turned towards her. She waved a hand at Mary, who felt a little thrill run through her. This was what she had been waiting for.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd like to form an orderly line in front of the bar, we have a rather special treat for the evening, courtesy of the lovely Geraldine," Mary smiled winningly.

  The crowd cheered as she walked to the bar and stood beside Charlie. Tiny ruby glasses, about twice the size of a thimble, were stacked on the right of his little bar. On the left were the bell-shaped bottle and two chrome cocktail shakers. The booze, she knew, would be on the shelf underneath.

  "You really are an old pro, aren't you, Charlie?" Mary whispered to him.

  He replied with a wink.

  "Whiskey or gin?" asked Mary of the first guest, a plump woman with a fur-trimmed neckline and tight rings that made her fingers look like sausages.

  "Whiskey, thanks, honey."

  At this stage of the evening Charlie could relax a little. People were drunk enough not to notice that his movements were fluid, less like a spring-powered automaton. It was exhausting to keep that act up all night, she knew. He deserved to have a little fun with his favorite part of the night.

  He poured the whiskey into the shaker, over crushed ice, followed by a shot of something shimmering that looked like liquid violets.

  "Hang on a minute, honey. That's not anything that's stronger than booze now, is it? If you get my drift." The plump woman looked concerned.

  "Madam, I assure you we serve nothing dangerous."

  "Now who's the old pro?" whispered Charlie under his moustache. The shaker frosted over as he gave it a quick, expert shake. He lifted it high in the air, straining the beverage into one of the ruby glasses. A fine mist wafted from the liquid as it waterfalled into it; the sound of children's laughter splashed up from the drink.

  "Now isn't that just the strangest thing?" The woman's pink-painted lips curved into a smile, her chubby cheeks shining. She held the glass up to the light; crimson sparkles shone on the wall behind it.

  Mary smiled back. "Now if you'd like to make your way to the lawn?"

  The plump woman stood aside for a man in a brown fedora.

  "Whiskey or gin?"

  They streamed to the bar, full of laughter and disinhibition. Mary watched Charlie pass another tiny glass of violet liquid to a smiling, swaying man, reveling in their abandonment.

  Geraldine waved at Mary as the last guest wandered outside. "Bottoms up, darlings!" she cried, downing the drink in one mouthful as Mary switched off the lights.

  Charlie wiped out the cocktail shakers as he looked out the window. "Admiring your handiwork?" Mary asked.

  "It never gets dull, does it? I mean, I never quite know how they're going to react . . . "

  "Look," she whispered. The crescent moon was slung low on the horizon, refusing to illuminate the garden with more than a wan glow. Geraldine laughed, a raucous guffaw from her belly. As it rang out, the laughter vapourized into yellow light, like boiling water into steam. It broke off into tiny pieces that flew up into amber lanterns that Mary had earlier strung through the trees, around the ironwork fencing, along the edges of the lawn. Luminous, the lanterns lit the party with the light of a worn-through sunset. Silhouettes of the ants and insect wings forever frozen in the amber filled the grounds.

  "Beautiful as ever," Charlie sighed. "It does seem sad, though, that they don't ever remember it."

  "Perhaps. But it doesn't mean that it doesn't change them, that they don't carry it with them." Laughing softly, she pointed toward the plump woman who had taken the first drink. All her flapper frippery had fallen off, discarded on the damp grass. She stretched, her body elongating, the soft white flesh stretching and curving around the changing bones. An unseen vessel tipped over her head, spilling shining liquid until she was coated head to foot in chrome. Naked, unadorned, she arched her back in an imitation of the Diana lamps and ashtrays of the day.

  "Amazing, isn't it, what people can do when you take back just a little time from them?" Mary never grew tired of the endless shapes, the form and formlessness that rested under the layers of time that humans wore like a shell. She wondered what would happen if it was age, the strangely complicated effect of time, that was stripped away. But the drink took back time itself, bringing out all the possibilities that the years steal away.

  "So that's how you do it, then."

  Mary jumped. The arrival of the owner of that low, sweet voice meant that they had a problem on their hands.

  Charlie froze, the tiny white towel swaying in his hand.

  Freya, in cloche hat and almond-colored wrapover coat, walked from the shadows, smiling. She looked like she was holding a secret inside her, beating like a second heart. Mary reached up to smooth down her hair, something she only did when she was unsettled.

  "I don't believe you've had one of Charlie's drinks . . . "

  Freya laughed. "I don't know that I will, in any event." She moved to the window; Mary felt a small electric shock as Freya's arm brushed hers. They stood together and looked onto the changing quicksilver shapes in the flickering shadows. Mary was surprised that Freya didn't seem shocked by any of it.

  "Geraldine always was a scattered girl. Never too sure what she wanted." Freya pointed to her sister, who was filled with light from within, illuminating the network of veins, arteries, capillaries under her skin. The light dimmed and she laughed as a monkey tail poked out from the waistband of her skirt and wound around her waist. The guests giggled and chattered, jazz dancing through the trees. A man looked down as his body transformed into a series of geometric, frosted glass panels separated by thin lead welds. His friend leaned down to peer through the glass, seemingly unperturbed by the snowy wings that had grown where his ears should be.

  Geraldine laughed and swung her tail—quite flirtatiously, Mary thought—at a woman whose skin had turned a mottled sea-blue. Delicate leafy sea dragons swum around her wrists and wove through her hair as it drifted as though tugged by the tide and unseen currents.

  "We don't allow people to witness our parties if they aren't prepared to participate." Charlie sounded a lot less amiable than usual and Mary noticed he was holding an icepick, its point gleaming. She shook her head at him, not wanting to have to take Freya's time by force. That was a messy business at best and could turn ugly. "Easy, Charlie. Easy," she whispered.

  "But I have seen one before. Don't you remember?" Freya looked surprised, then took a step backwards as she glanced at Charlie's icepick. "You told me to be patient because you'd come back and I would discover things way beyond what I had seen that night." She held her left hand out to Mary, palm upturned.

  The skin of her wrist was pale, the veins cobalt underneath. Between the d
elicate layers was a watch hand, pointing toward her palm.

  Mary recognized it instantly. "That's the second hand from your grandfather's watch," she said.

  "So you do remember!"

  Mary shook her head. "I'm afraid not. We've never met before, but . . . things that have happened in your past may be going to happen in our future, see?" Why am I telling her this? she wondered.

  Charlie scowled as her words spilled out.

  She hurried on. "So you had better tell your story so we can see exactly what's going on." And how on earth we're going to deal with it, she thought.

  Freya looked nervously at Charlie, the icepick still in his hand. Mary frowned. "Put it away Charlie."

  Grumbling, Charlie reluctantly stowed the weapon under his counter.

  "I was only seven," Freya began "when my grandparents had a party, just like this one. The world in 1889 was a lot different to the world now—it was all propriety and manners and rules—it was claustrophobic, especially for a child. I couldn't sleep and lay in bed, listening to the party downstairs. And then I heard your voice, Mary, calling for everyone to line up for the evening's special treat—just like you did earlier tonight. I crept to the top of the stairs and I, I saw . . . it was just like tonight, people changing into things I'd never dreamed of. Can you imagine what that was like for a child?"

  A loud bang on the window made them all jump. An enormous peacock, still with human legs, lay sprawled on the grass, shaking its head.

  "Amateur," muttered Charlie.

  "I wanted to join them," Freya went on "and I crept out from my hiding place, made it to the first landing. That was when you saw me, Mary. You walked up the stairs towards me and I thought you were so lovely, so different. But as you got closer, I felt very peculiar . . . sort of still from the inside out."