The Time Travelers: Volume One

by Caroline B. Cooney

  This time his finger stabbed more sharply, and Annie saw the sign.

  WE DO NOT ACCEPT LOGGERS, JEWS

  OR UNACCOMPANIED FEMALES.

  “There are always rooms for people suited to our ideals,” the clerk said grandly. “But doubtful or deficient characters need not ask.” He sneered beneath his circular mustache.

  When she did not move, he came out from behind his desk, lifting a flat section of the surface to pass through. There was a smile on his face, like the smile of Walker Walkley.

  She backed away and he advanced on her, until she had backed out the door and was standing again in the snow.

  The Adirondack Mountains blocked the sun. Blue shadows turned little Evergreen into a dark cavern. Huge spruce trees blackened the last of the sky.

  It was like being in a terrible cathedral of night and snow and cold.

  She was afraid.

  And she was alone.

  Only cruel winter was at her side.

  By the clock over the railroad station, it was ten past four.

  It was still the same day.

  I won’t cry, she said to herself. I won’t stand out here in the snow and cry. If I don’t get a room for the night, I won’t worry about a room for the night. I’ll go to the asylum now and see my brother, Strat.

  She went inside the railroad station. It must still be the 1890s, because a clerk was on duty. In the 1990s the station would have been turned into a boutique open on alternate weekends.

  The clerk in the station looked exactly like the clerk in the hotel. It was the beard-mustache thing, and the black-suit-with-vest-and-pocket-watch thing. She approached him.

  “Where is the Asylum, may I ask?”

  “Two miles north of town, miss.” He stepped away from her, finding things to do deep within his office, among his green-shaded lamps and tickets on rolls.

  What would my mother do now? thought Annie.

  Immediately she knew that both her mother and Devonny would make a triumphal entry. She had forgotten the towering plumes and the ermine muff. Instead of relishing the corset, which kept her upright, proud and snobbish, she was sagging onto it, as if it were a wall on which to lean.

  Annie straightened. She sharpened her features. She tilted her nose, the better to look down it. “Summon a conveyance,” she said to the clerk, as snippily as she knew how. “The day grows late,” she said severely, “while you are fiddling about accomplishing nothing.”

  “Certainly, miss,” said the station clerk. “I’m sorry, miss,” and he hopped to it. In so tiny a village, the “conveyance” department was not far. A beautiful bell-ringing, horse-stomping sleigh crossed the street from the stable.

  “That will never do!” said Annie imperiously. “An open sleigh? I am frail. I require a closed carriage. Kindly return that unsuitable conveyance at once.”

  I love this, thought Annie. Perhaps I shall become an actress, specializing in out-of-date stage plays.

  The men tipped their hats to her, which she had read about, but never seen. They didn’t actually move their hats, but touched their fingers to the rims, as if saluting. Annie was fond of this response, too, and thought that perhaps prior to becoming a famous actress, she would be an army officer, inspect recruits, and force them to salute her often.

  “That,” she said to the clerk, “is more reasonable.” She tipped him two dollars, and he beamed and wished her a safe, warm journey.

  The driver sat outside on a high bench, while she was within the carriage. It was not cozy. It was a small dark round refrigerator. The clerk brought a foot warmer: an odd little container of shiny metal, in which something hot rested. It felt wonderful beneath her frozen boots. It did nothing for the rest of her body.

  There were so many advantages to the 1990s. Instant warmth alone was a perfectly good reason to move up a century.

  The winter sun had not seemed to rise at all that day, and as afternoon turned toward evening, it did not seem to set. Gloom, the shape and color of crushed hopes, froze in the sky.

  They turned away from the village, and passed through an evergreen forest that was not green but black. A forest in which children had rightly feared wolves. A forest in which wolves really did eat grandmothers.

  Beyond the forest were meadows, wide and bleak.

  The forest trimmed the meadows in an oddly circular fashion, as if cut by kindergartners learning curves. Trees rushed down to the meadow edge, and there, roots clutching rocks, the trees tilted dangerously, swept out over the snow like sails.

  “Where are we?” said Annie through the little front opening.

  “Evergreen Pond,” said the driver. He flicked the reins. “Bad accident here last week, miss,” he said, gossiping over his shoulder like any taxi driver. “That’s not a field, of course, but a lake, and it never froze up right. See, we had snowfall before the ice got solid, and then the snow turned into a blanket, see, kept the water from ever freezing. City people, here for a ski holiday, they didn’t know any better. Rode their sleighs out on it.”

  He stopped talking.

  “What happened?” said Annie.

  He seemed surprised that she required more explanation. “They went through, miss.”

  “And were they saved?” she asked, horrified.

  He was more surprised. “No, miss,” he said. “The lake is deep, and the sleighs and the horses were heavy.”

  Annie gulped.

  So the snow, which looked so pure and clean, had secrets too. Secrets the snow kept close to itself, the better to kill by.

  Annie trembled, and threw the thoughts out of her mind.

  The carriage stopped. Without the sleighbells ringing, without the horses pounding on the snow, she could hear again.

  What she heard was a horrible chorus, as if some ghastly birds were gathering for migration. Croaking and screaming and wailing.

  The driver hopped down and came around to open her carriage door. We’re here? she thought. I don’t want to do this. A lunatic asylum? I think I’m checking out. “What is that sound?” she whispered.

  His face grew sympathetic. “Those are the lunatics. They scream all the time. That’s why their asylum is so far out of town.”

  Walker Walkley awoke to a vicious hangover. His head throbbed agonizingly. His mouth ached. Even his teeth ached, as if somebody had slugged him in the jaw.

  “Somebody did,” said the local doctor. “You had a real Mickey Finn there. Who doesn’t like you?”

  “I did not have a Mickey Finn,” said Walk angrily. “Nobody slipped a narcotic into a drink. Some female held a scarf over my face and knocked me out with it. The same anesthetic dentists use. I believe it was chloroform.”

  The police laughed at this. “A man your size got knocked out by a woman and a scarf?”

  Walker Walkley was surrounded by people laughing at him. He hated them. He hated all of northern New York. He would get that woman in mink, he would …

  But the woman was nothing; she was a sideline. The important person was Miss Lockwood. He would kill her. No one humiliated Walker Walkley. Certainly not a female.

  Rage percolated through him. It felt good. It felt hot and purposeful and certain.

  He would kill her.

  These pathetic little pretend detectives and this sad so-called doctor—that was what happened when you left the city; you got shabby excuses instead of competent people—would never find Miss Lockwood. Luckily, he knew where she had gone.

  Evergreen.

  He was many hours behind her.

  But telephones, those blessed inventions of his time, were behind nothing.

  All right, Annie Lockwood said to herself. I’m breaking into an insane asylum. Who should I use as a role model?

  The driver offered his arm, lest she slip on the ice, and slowly, like a processional, they left the horses, passed between magnificent stone pillars, circled a snow-covered shrub garden, went up five broad and slippery steps, and approached the entrance to the Evergreen Asylum fo
r the Deranged.

  Deranged, thought Annie. De-ranged. Patients are cattle taken from their range: locked in stalls to be fed now and then.

  I must not be afraid. In a moment, the driver will let go of me and I will have to do this on my own. Who am I?

  Devonny? 1890s and proud?

  Harriett? 1890s and brilliant and nervous and plain?

  Florinda? 1890s and a flibberty-gibberty stepmother in need of constant assistance?

  Or am I my mother? Tough as nails on the outside, ferocious in restaurants? Cut to pieces and floundering on the inside?

  No! I’m Miss Bartten! I’m a woman who can get a man to do anything. I appeal to his superior strength, his manly personality, the pleasure of his wonderful company.

  Annie added a sensual twist to her snobbish demeanor. She made her lips pouty. She filled her actress’s mind with thoughts of adoration.

  Whoever you are, you pathetic little superintendent of asylums, you are mine now.

  Annie wore a veil over her face. It did not hide her features: its delicate black threads were woven in triangles, and yet it had the effect of sunglasses. She was truly behind it and others were distant on the far side of the lens. Or veil. It was just like sunglasses—sexy and dark.

  Dr. Wilmott was tall, and the elongated suit made him taller, for the sleeves hung low, the jacket tails hung low, and heavy boot soles raised him up. His beard was ornate, carved around his ears, cheeks and chin. His mustache swooped, its waxed ends poking out into the air like Q-tips. He was very proud of this hair display, and continually stroked his tips and brushes.

  Annie wasted no time. “Oh, Doctor,” she said, for the nurse and the secretary to whom she had spoken both called him Doctor, reverently, as if he were God. “I am so relieved at your strong presence. I know how painful a reunion with my dear sick brother will be. I’m going to need your support.” She thought beautiful thoughts. She tilted in a needy sort of way.

  Doctor swiftly came from behind his huge, intimidating sprawl of a desk. The man actually knelt by her chair and took her hand. Annie allowed him to do this, but of course did not respond. That would have been forward. Plus, he was nauseating.

  “Oh, Doctor,” she said, admiring the disgusting waxwork of his facial hair, “please tell me about your achievements here. All through the terrifying journey on the train—oh, Doctor, that was so difficult—I have never traveled without my father before and I have learned such a lesson! I shall never take such risks again!—but all through that journey, I thought only of how you must be helping my brother.”

  Dr. Wilmott ushered her to a tiny hard sofa, so they could sit next to each other. She perched on the rim and kept her eyes lowered. How long would she have to simper over things Doctor had probably not done for Strat in order to be permitted to see Strat?

  “We use the moral method, of course,” said Doctor. He definitely never abbreviated his status. This was a man who every moment of his life and yours expected to be honored, because he was Doctor. “We treat many sad nervous systems, such as insanity, idiocy and epilepsy. Also, of course, cases of deformity.”

  Annie almost said, “What kind of jerk are you? How do you treat cases of deformity by telling them to have higher morals?” But instead she cried, “Oh, Doctor! I am sure that by your example alone, many have recovered.”

  Did he throw up?

  Did he say, “Stop playing games with me, kid, and tell me why you’re here?”

  Did he say, “How would you know what kind of example I set, lady? You’ve known me five minutes.”

  No. He practically swooned.

  She could tell just by the beard that Doctor liked himself better than anything else around. How much he must need to hear garbage like this. After all, he was stuck out here in the woods with a bunch of shrieking maniacs. Who was there to remind him of his superior brain and ability?

  Only me, thought Annie. And luckily I have looks as well as brains and ability. I don’t care what century you’re in; beauty convinces people every time.

  Slowly, as if in a ballet, Annie removed her veil. It was a surprisingly sexy act. She actually blushed as she revealed her face. Naturally she could not meet Doctor’s eyes, but murmured, “Doctor, please reassure me that during this hour of trial, you will be with me, and help me face whatever condition my poor dear brother is in.”

  Doctor felt he could do this. He explained that the visit would have to be in his office. She must remember how severely deranged so many of his guests were. It would be too difficult for a lady of Miss Devonny Stratton’s position to be assaulted by the sounds and sights of the other patients.

  “Oh, thank you! You are so thoughtful. Doctor, you won’t leave me alone with Strat, will you?” she said anxiously. “I shall be able to count on your presence, shan’t I?” She had never said shan’t out loud before. She wondered if she sounded as abnormal as his patients. “I have heard such frightening stories of guards in institutions like these. I won’t have to lay eyes on such a creature, will I?” She fanned herself to show how appalling that would be.

  Especially appalling once Walker Walkley found a next train. I’d better get this show on the road, she thought. Move it, Doc.

  “I shall not leave your side” said Doctor, patting her arm too. He smiled reassuringly. A couple of decades of nicotine and little toothbrushing coated his teeth. Annie had to close her eyes, but luckily this was how ladies behaved.

  Strat could not believe what was happening to him.

  They were giving him a bath. In hot water. They were shaving him and combing his hair. Gently.

  Strat was weak from so little activity, weak from the rage that had consumed him, and then eaten itself up, and left him sagging inside the restraints. His brain was flat, as if the asylum had ironed his ability to think. Maybe I am insane, he thought. Nothing is going through my head the way it ought to.

  He could not help hoping they were also going to give him a real meal. Grown-up food, like roast beef and fried potatoes and gravy and …

  Whatever happens next, I must not let myself think about gravy. I must think of escape.

  He was too tired. He could not think of escape. He could only hope that this lasted and lasted and lasted.

  Soft warm socks. (They had not given him shoes.) Clean soft wool pants. (They had given him neither belt nor suspenders, so he was holding them up with one hand.)

  He walked obediently between two escorts, too busy with texture and warmth and cleanliness to know much else. There was a change in scent as they went through a heavy set of bolted doors and turned down a different hall. No longer the stench of bad toilet closets and unwashed patients, but a smell both Christmasy and leathery. A sort of library-in-winter smell. He could sniff out cinnamon, too, and coffee.

  And light!

  A real window on one side of him with real glass, through which he could see a real world of snow-covered trees, and a statue, and a lamppost.

  It overwhelmed him. Strat might have been a prisoner of war after months of suffering and isolation. He had little control.

  In front of him were apparitions.

  There was Dr. Wilmott who ran the asylum. Smiling and nodding, bowing and blushing. Yes. Blushing.

  This could not be translated by a mind as dulled as Strat’s.

  There was a fine long walnut desk, a glass paperweight with dancing colors, and a lamp with a heavy brass bottom. There were books and the scent of books, chairs in dark green leather and a Persian carpet as fine as any back in Manhattan.

  And a lady.

  She wore a magnificent gown, as if about to leave for some gala affair. Jewels sparkled on her pale throat, and gloved hands were folded in her lap.

  My mother? thought Strat dimly. His heart went crazy with hope. Harriett? Devonny? Had one of them come to rescue him?

  She turned, and Strat saw her face.

  Anna Sophia.

  Annie had known that seeing Strat again would be wonderful, but she had not known it would b
e this wonderful.

  She jumped up from the hard little sofa, caring nothing for the vast hat that required such perfect posture. She flung her arms around him. “Oh, Strat!” she cried, hugging and kissing. He was as handsome and fine as before. Thinner, paler—but perfect.

  She had not one sisterly thought. All her thoughts were romantic. Plumes and ribbons and velvets were now halfway down her back. She wanted to feel every inch of him. She wanted to hold his cheeks in her two hands and kiss him for days.

  She was out of breath with excitement. It had worked! Being a lady, being a flirt, being a liar—these things worked!

  She wanted to dance like football players after a goal. But Annie Lockwood had a goal of her own. Getting Strat out.

  Strat, reasonably enough, was speechless. After all, depending on your viewpoint, he had not seen her in a hundred years.

  Don’t talk yet, she thought, let me handle this. “Oh, Doctor!” she cried. “You are so wonderful, Doctor. It is such a privilege to have met such a great man. What a cure you have wrought! How wonderful my brother looks! How deeply in your debt I am! Oh, kind Doctor! Your brilliance has no equal.”

  They really did talk like that in the 1890s. And Doctor responded as doctors did in Victorian times: he bowed in receipt of her praise.

  Annie couldn’t watch a man being so foolish. Anyway, she had somebody immensely better to look at. “Strat, darling,” she said, “wake up, dear brother. It’s your sister, Devonny.”

  “Devonny,” he repeated. He nodded, as if tucking this away for future reference.

  And now Annie Lockwood had a problem. She had Doctor where she wanted him and Strat where she wanted him. But Strat wore no shoes and no coat. His clothing was all too obviously the clothing of a well-cared-for patient, not a gentleman. The sleigh was waiting for her; the carriage was covered and would hide Strat. But it could not hide Strat from the driver, who might not cooperate with escape plans. The driver, after all, was afraid of lunatics.

  She had not planned any further. She did not know how to get Strat and herself out. She did not know if Strat was sufficiently with the program to pick up his feet and run. She did not know if Doctor had armed and dangerous backup. For all she knew, he had a buzzer beneath his desk to summon …