Point of No Return

by Paul McCusker

  But the thing that caught Matt’s and Jack’s attention was a large machine sitting in the very center of the room.

  “What is it?” Matt gasped as he circled the odd-looking invention. It looked as if someone had combined an old telephone booth with a helicopter cockpit. Through the smoke-colored glass, he could see multicolored lights blinking inside. A low, constant hum seemed to vibrate through his chest.

  “Maybe it’s one of those booths that takes your picture,” Jack suggested. “You know, like they have at the mall.”

  Matt shook his head. “No way. Why would Whit invent something that he could just buy? It’s some kind of ride.”

  Jack, who circled the machine from the other direction, nearly tripped over a large cable. It ran from the invention over to a large box that looked like a washing machine. On second glance, Jack realized that the “washing machine” was some kind of computer. “Check this out,” he called to Matt.

  Matt was at Jack’s side in an instant. “This is great! The computer must be feeding information into the ride.” Matt gazed at several books, encyclopedias, magazines, and newspaper clippings scattered on a nearby workbench. They referred to the Underground Railroad, slavery in America, and the Civil War. Jack picked up one particular headline that reported Odyssey’s “November Riots.” The year 1858 was handwritten in the upper right-hand corner.

  “This is great! It must be some kind of Civil War ride.” Matt dashed around to the door of the machine. “I love that time in history.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” Jack said offhandedly. History wasn’t one of his strong subjects.

  The door didn’t have a handle, so Matt had to look for a way in. “My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a slave,” he said simply.

  Jack did a double take as if realizing for the first time that Matt was black. “You’re kidding. You mean he was a slave, like on one of those plantations in the South?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had never thought much about skin color—his own pale, pink flesh or the honey-brown tone of Matt’s. They were friends, and that seemed to be enough. Their parents never drew attention to the difference in their races, either. Why should they? But the thought of Matt having someone in his family who was once a slave made Jack uneasy. What if his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a slave owner?

  “Aha!” Matt exclaimed and pushed a button. Whoosh! Just like an elevator, the door on the “booth” slid back and disappeared into the side of the machine. Jack suddenly realized what was happening.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as Matt climbed in.

  “I want to see what it does,” he replied.

  Jack glanced around nervously. “What if Mr. Whittaker comes down?”

  “Then we’ll get in trouble,” Matt said with a shrug. “But we’ll still be the first ones to try his new ride.”

  Jack couldn’t argue with his point, so he smiled and squeezed into the chair next to Matt. It was large and comfortable. They faced a dashboard of buttons, small lights, and digital displays. “This is amazing,” Jack said. He picked up a large sheet of blue paper with crude sketches of the machine, numbers, lines, and, on the bottom, the words The Imagination Station (Revisions & Improvements).

  “The Imagination Station?” Matt mused. A flashing red button— larger than the rest—beckoned them. “Let’s push this one and see what happens.”

  “Are you sure it’s worth it if we get in trouble?” Jack asked.

  Matt smiled. “We won’t know until we try it, will we?”

  For an instant, Jack understood why their parents complained that the two boys weren’t good for each other. He dismissed the thought and said, “Push it.”

  Matt poked at the red button with his finger. It clicked down. Nothing happened.

  Disappointed, Jack slumped a little in the seat. “Maybe Mr. Whittaker hasn’t finished it yet.”

  Matt was about to answer when the door quickly slid shut with another whoosh. The machine made a low, rattling sound that soon got louder and louder.

  “It sounds like it’s going to fall apart,” Jack said, worried.

  Matt reached for the red button. “Maybe I should stop it.”

  It was too late. The Imagination Station shifted into a higher gear with a shrill, whirring sound.

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, but his breath was taken away as the machine lurched forward. Or did it? Neither of them could be sure. All they knew right then was that it felt as if they had just been blasted out of a rocket silo into warp-speed hyperspace. Butterflies danced in their stomachs. Their eyes grew wide.

  The colors of the lighted dashboard, the smoky glass, and the workroom beyond spun out of control. Jack and Matt cried out.

  Then everything went dark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “THIS IS WEIRD,” Jack said in the darkness. He was on his knees, but he didn’t know how he got that way.

  “Too weird,” Matt replied from Jack’s left. “We’re back in the tunnel again.”

  “Are you sure?” Jack asked, but all his senses told him it was true. The cool earth beneath him, the smell of damp, and the endless night ahead and behind him confirmed it. Matt patted the tunnel wall with the flat of his hand. “It’s the tunnel all right. But I can’t figure out how we got back here.”

  “Maybe we’ve been stuck here for hours and only dreamed about Mr. Whittaker’s workroom and the Imagination Station and…” Jack stopped himself. Two people couldn’t have the same dream, could they? “You remember the workroom and the machine, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” Matt answered. “That’s what makes it so weird. How could we be sitting in the machine and the next second be in the tunnel again?”

  Jack suddenly gasped and reached out. His hand collided with Matt’s chest.

  “Ouch. What’s wrong?” Matt asked.

  Jack shushed him. “Don’t you hear those voices?”

  Matt listened for a moment. Muted, almost unhearable voices drifted down the tunnel. They were quiet, as if someone had left a radio on somewhere.

  “This way,” Jack said as he felt his way forward into the tunnel. He looked for the red light that had signaled the motion-sensitive lights. It wasn’t there. Instead, he saw a thin, yellow line stretching across the ground and up the tunnel wall. As his eyes adjusted, he realized it was light coming out from under the bottom and side of a door. By the time they were only a few feet away, they could see its outline completely. The door was slightly ajar. The voices were more distinct. Two men were arguing.

  “This is really weird,” Matt whispered as they got closer. Together the boys huddled at the crack in the door and peered through. The workroom was completely different from the one they’d seen before. The workbenches were gone. In their place sat a couple of sleeping cots covered with ragged wool blankets. The walls were bare wood and stone. In the center of the room, a scarred wooden table and wooden chairs crouched on fragile legs. Two men stood on opposite sides of the table. Jack and Matt didn’t recognize either one of them. One was a tall, slender white man with salt-and-pepper-colored hair that stuck out in wavy tufts. He wore a clerical collar atop a blue shirt and trousers. The other man was taller and stockier. His coat, shirt, and pants were an ill-fitting patchwork that made him look even larger than he was. His face was dark brown and glistened with sweat. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other while clinging with both hands to a frayed hat.

  “Is this the basement to Whit’s End?” Matt whispered.

  Jack shrugged. “I think so…I don’t know. Listen.” They turned their attention to the argument inside.

  “No, sir, Reverend Andrew,” the black man was saying. “I’m tired of running. We’re free now, and I won’t hide in someone’s cellar. No, sir, I won’t.”

  The clergyman spread his hands in appeal and said with a soft English accent, “Listen to reason, Clarence. They’ll catch you and take you back to your o
ld master. That’s what they’re paid to do, and that’s what the Fugitive Slave Law allows them to do. Even here.”

  The man called Clarence tightened his grip on the hat. “With all due respect, Reverend Andrew, I’m tired of laws that take away a man’s freedom.”

  “So am I,” Andrew said sadly. “But what you or I want makes no difference for the moment. Odyssey is in the midst of an all-fired argument about slavery. Douglas and Lincoln have everyone riled up from their debates. The town is split in two. My advice to all the runaway slaves is to keep moving north. None of the American territories are safe. You won’t be truly free until you get to Canada. So, tomorrow morning we have to get you back on the Railroad and—”

  Clarence interrupted, shaking his head slowly. “We can’t take another step. Not so soon. We’ve come a long way and we’re tired all to pieces. I have to think of my daughter here.”

  “It’s your daughter I’m thinking about as well,” Andrew said as he gestured behind him. Jack and Matt took a couple of steps to the right to get a clearer view of who they were talking about. A black girl— about the same age as Jack and Matt—sat quietly on the edge of a cot. She was wrapped in rags that barely passed for a dress and coat and looked as if she might fall over from lack of sleep. Their movement caught her eye. She squinted at them.

  “Somebody’s at the door,” the girl said softly.

  Wanting to hide in the darkness of the tunnel, Jack pushed back against Matt, who stumbled and fell backward to the ground with a grunt. Jack then tripped over Matt and found himself flat on his back in the dirt.

  Hands seemed to come from everywhere and hauled Jack and Matt to their feet. Instantly they were both dragged into the room and dropped onto the rickety chairs. Andrew and Clarence leaned into their faces with expressions full of accusation.

  “Who are you?” Andrew demanded. “Why were you spying on us?”

  “We weren’t spying,” Matt stammered.

  Jack tried to explain. “We got lost in the tunnel and couldn’t figure out where we were—er, are. We were just playing football and—”

  “We thought we were in a machine in Mr. Whittaker’s workroom,” Matt chimed in, “but then we were in the tunnel again and—”

  “Do you know what he’s talking about?” Clarence asked Andrew.

  Andrew shook his head no. “Beats the thunder out of me.”

  Clarence turned to Matt. “Where’s your papers, young ’un?”

  “My papers?” Matt asked.

  “Are you free or running away?” Andrew asked.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Matt said.

  “Come now, son. Where are you from?” Andrew asked.

  “Odyssey.”

  “I’ve never seen you around Odyssey,” Andrew challenged him.

  “He is from Odyssey!” Jack shouted. “And so am I! And if you don’t let us go right away, our parents are going to send the police here, and you’ll be arrested for kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping!” Clarence exclaimed.

  “Yeah kidnapping!” Matt added.

  Andrew waved his hands as if trying to bring calm to the confusion. “Wait just a minute. Nobody is being kidnapped. Look, lads, I know everyone in Odyssey. So just tell me who your parents are and I’ll make sure you get home safely. But first I want you to tell me how you found the entrance to the tunnel. It’s important that—”

  “Somebody else is here,” the little girl said.

  All eyes went to the door. Another black man stood in the half-shadows. “I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said as he shyly stepped into the room.

  “This has turned into a major thoroughfare,” Andrew said with a hint of distress.

  Clarence couldn’t mask his alarm. “Just what’s going on here? Who are you? Are you all together?”

  Jack and Matt vigorously shook their heads. “We’ve never seen him before,” said Jack.

  “No, sir. Those boys aren’t with me,” the stranger replied. His outfit was worn and dirty like Clarence’s, and the sweat-stained hat on his head drooped down like it was terribly sad about something. “I’m a runaway slave who’s come to you for help because I heard you were part of the Underground Railroad. Have I come to the right place?”

  Andrew was about to answer when suddenly Clarence interrupted. “Where are you from? How did you hear about the Railroad?”

  “I’m from Hattiesburg, where any slave with a good pair of ears has heard about the Railroad,” the stranger explained. “I’ve been on the run for weeks.”

  Clarence eyed him skeptically. “You look awfully healthy for a man who’s been running for weeks.”

  A sliver of a smile crossed the man’s face. His eyes narrowed humorlessly under the brim of the hat. “I can’t help how I look. Why’re you asking me so many questions? Did I understand wrong? I thought runaways were taken care of here. Aren’t I welcome?”

  “Of course you’re welcome,” Andrew said.

  “Don’t trust him,” Clarence said boldly.

  “What?” Andrew asked, startled. “Why not?”

  Clarence kept his eyes on the stranger. “There’s something wrong here.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” the stranger said.

  “Clarence, please explain yourself,” Andrew insisted.

  “I’ve learned never to trust a so-called slave who’d approach a white man without taking his hat off first,” Clarence said.

  “You doubt this man because of his hat?” Andrew asked incredulously.

  “I’m telling you, sir, that it’s one of the first things any slave learns. You always take your hat off around white folks. It’s a habit. It stays a habit your whole life. The only ones who don’t know it aren’t really slaves.” Clarence stood up to his full height as if he expected the stranger to jump at him.

  The stranger chuckled and took his hat off. “Maybe we do things differently in our part of the country.”

  “Maybe you do,” Clarence said. “And maybe you’re a free black man who’s working for the slave hunters. Maybe you’re one of those treacherous snakes who pretends to be a slave to help the slave hunters find the stops on the Railroad. Maybe this is how you find the fugitives!”

  “You’ve no call to speak to me that way. I think you must be sick with a fever,” the stranger said.

  “I can settle this,” Andrew announced, then gazed at the stranger. “Tell me who sent you here. If you’ve been traveling on the Railroad, I’ll know who told you to come.”

  The stranger frowned and said, “I don’t ask for names, sir. It was an old woman—in a cabin about a mile on this side of the Mississippi.”

  “That would be Mrs. Cunningham,” Andrew said with a smile. “Keeps bees to make her own honey, I believe.”

  “Mrs. Cunningham. That’s right. Kept bees. I remember now. Gave me some of the honey,” the stranger said, obviously relieved.

  Clarence folded his arms and grunted his unspoken doubt.

  Andrew seemed satisfied and held out his hand. “Come on in. Forgive us for being so suspicious.”

  The stranger took a step forward and shook the Reverend Andrew’s hand. “Thank you, Reverend,” he said.

  Suddenly, Andrew’s eyes turned cold as he tightened his grip on the stranger’s hand. “Peculiar that your hand doesn’t have calluses. I’ve never met a slave who didn’t have calloused hands.”

  The stranger’s eyes widened. “I was a house slave,” he explained.

  “Really now?” Andrew questioned as he pulled the stranger closer. He continued in a low, threatening voice. “That may be true. But unfortunately for you, there’s no Mrs. Cunningham who keeps bees. I made it up.”

  The stranger jerked his hand away from Andrew and, with his other hand, put two fingers in his mouth and let out a loud, shrill whistle. Immediately, somewhere deep in the tunnel, men shouted. Oil lamps danced like fireflies in the darkness.

  “It’s a trap!” Clarence cried out.

 
; “Run!” Andrew shouted. “Run for your lives!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  EVERYTHING HAPPENED at the same time. The stranger leaped at Clarence in a flying tackle and the two crashed onto the table. It collapsed under their weight with a wrenching, splintering sound. The girl screamed. With surprising power, Clarence grabbed the stranger, rolled him over, and delivered a hard blow to his jaw.

  The Reverend Andrew grabbed Jack, Matt, and the girl and pushed them to the stairs. “Run!” he shouted.

  “Daddy!” the girl cried out.

  Clarence jerked his head around and yelled, “Go, child! You know where to meet me!”

  Andrew spun around to face the crowd of men as they appeared in the tunnel doorway. The girl and Matt raced up the stairs. Jack followed, but not without first seeing the men from the tunnel pour into the room, their lamps and guns lifted. They descended like a pack of wolves onto Andrew and Clarence.

  “What in the world’s going on here?” Matt called over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” Jack shouted back, “but I sure hope Whit’s End is at the top of these stairs.”

  Matt and the girl reached the top landing and disappeared around the corner. As he reached the doorway himself, Jack wished that he would find himself in the soda shop, with Whit serving ice cream behind the counter and kids crowded into every booth, table, and corner. Whatever he and Matt had done by getting in the Imagination Station and pushing that red button—whether it was a weird dream or some kind of ride—Jack was sorry and wanted to put an end to it now. He didn’t like being chased by strange men in a strange place. He didn’t like the feeling that he and Matt had gotten themselves into something that they wouldn’t get out of easily. Please, please, please, he thought, let it be Whit’s End.

  Jack stopped dead in his tracks. It wasn’t Whit’s End. To his surprise, it was a modest-sized church with stained-glass windows, wooden pews, and, on the far end, an altar, podium, and choir loft.

  Matt stood a few feet away from Jack and they shared the same open-mouthed expression. “Where are we?” Matt asked.