“Yes we do,” I say, looking over at Abbie. I don’t have to mindpatch her to tell her what I’m thinking.
“Judith,” I say, “stay here with the recruits. Keep them entertained. Recite some poetry to them or something. Gerhard, you come with me, Dmitri and Abbie back to the cabin. There’s something we need to do.”
As soon as we arrive back at the cabin, I send Gerhard back to the barn with blankets and any warm clothing we can find.
“We’ll need your sharpest knife, Dmitri,” I say. “Also bandages, a belt to use as a tourniquet and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.”
“I don’t have rubbing alcohol, but I do have a bottle of Scotch . . . will that do?”
I almost laugh out loud. “The Scotch will work just fine,” I say. The irony of using Scottish whiskey for what we’re about to do isn’t lost on me.
While Dmitri busies himself gathering the supplies, I turn to Abbie and say, “He may not need both our patches. Maybe we should do me first and see how it goes.”
“No,” she says. “We’re in this together, Cale. Besides, it’s either take our patches out or find more anti-time-fog pills. And that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon.”
“Abbie, I—”
She leans in and kisses me. Not on the cheek either.
“There,” she says, stepping back. “Now that we’ve settled that piece of business, all that’s left is to decide who goes first. If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll go second. By then Dmitri will have some experience under his belt.”
“Okay,” I say, laughing. But it’s mostly nervous laughter.
A moment later, Dmitri enters and lays out all of the supplies on the kitchen table.
“The first step is to sterilize the knife,” I say, holding the blade over the sink and pouring Scotch over it.
Once that’s done, I hand the knife back to Dmitri and cinch the belt tight around my forearm.
“Okay, it’s your turn now,” I say. “Make the first cut right here.” I trace a line with my finger down the side of my wrist.
“After that, two small cuts, here and here,” I continue.
“How deep shall I cut, do you think?” asks Dmitri.
“Not too deep,” I say. “The implant is right under the skin. You’ll need to peel the skin back after you make the cuts, to get at the implant.”
“And then?” Dmitri asks.
“Yank it out, pour some Scotch over the area and ignore my screams.”
Dmitri holds the knife inches above my wrist. “Are you ready?”
I nod, grit my teeth and, as the knife descends, think of Zach.
When it’s done, we hurry back to the barn.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Judith says once we’re on board. “I have recited all of the poems that I can remember and even tried out some of my new creations.”
“Nice job, Judith,” I say.
The recruits are bundled up in the blankets that Gerhard brought. Although they don’t look happy, at least there are no signs of open rebellion.
“We’ll be ready to go soon,” I say hopefully.
Dmitri wastes no time in hooking up our wrist patches to the control panel.
I gingerly touch the bandage on my right wrist. It’s tender, but not too bad, considering everything.
“We’re ready,” says Dmitri from the control booth.
“All right,” I say. “Hang on, everyone.”
The car shudders slightly.
Ten seconds pass.
Nothing.
I want to cry. It isn’t working.
But why am I surprised? Dmitri told us it might not be enough.
We are all going to be stranded here.
What a fool I was to think that I could actually pull it off. That I could rescue the recruits and bring them to their—
The car is rocked by a thundering boom.
After that, only blackness.
June 2, 1965 3:31 P.M.
Youngstown, Ohio
In my mind’s eye, I picture the subway car splitting in two, with the bigger half being flung into the time-space continuum, where it spins madly like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz before coming to a jarring landing on some distant outpost in history.
But then a dizzy feeling hits me. Dizzy is good, isn’t it? Time travel makes one dizzy. But best not to get my hopes up. Best to expect the worst, so that when I find out that we haven’t traveled even five seconds back in time, I won’t be devastated.
I open my eyes slowly. The first thing I notice is sunlight streaming through the windows of the subway car, highlighting the dust motes in the air.
A tapping noise startles me. Someone is knocking on the doors. No, not the doors, a window. A large clown face and two white-gloved hands are pressed against the glass. The mouth is frowning, but the eyes look surprised.
I try to smile, but the time freeze only allows half of a smile.
Beyond the clown, I can see a smattering of large tents. There are people moving between them, some of them pulling cages on wheels with large animals pacing inside the cages. The smell of sawdust, sweat and sweet corn fills the air.
“Dmitri! You did it!”
“Indubitably,” he says, eyes sparkling , and I’m reminded again of young Dmitri.
“Place and time?” asks Abbie.
“Youngstown, Ohio, June 2, 1965, 3:31 P.M. Just outside the city on the circus grounds,” answers Dmitri. “Rosa, this is your stop.”
A young girl steps forward. Her eyes are red either from crying or fatigue or both. She shoots out the door and races toward the largest tent. I follow her past an extremely tall man and a very short woman sitting on stools outside the tent, playing a game of cards. I guess they aren’t her parents.
Inside, a small crowd is watching in stunned silence as a blindfolded man onstage hurls daggers in the direction of a woman standing not more than twenty feet away.
“Papa!” yells Rosa, tearing through the crowd.
The man on the stage turns his head toward the voice and says, “Rosa, my schnucki. Be a good girl and wait outside until the performance is over, all right?” Then he throws another dagger at the woman and misses her by a hair.
I smile, exit the tent and head back to the subway car. About a dozen people are gathered around it.
“It’s a miracle,” one man says to another.
“If you want to see a miracle, look over there,” says the second man, pointing to where a man is skipping rope, jumping on a trampoline and smoking four cigarettes at once, blowing rings the size of a truck tire.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping between the men and rapping on the door of the car.
Abbie lets me in, and the doors close right behind me.
“Opinions are split down the middle,” she says as I climb on board. “About half think we’re another circus act. The other half think we’re from out of state.”
I laugh. It feels good. The sun streams through the windows of our car, and I feel the tension of our escape draining away.
“Next stop is for recruits Antoine, Dominique and Pierre . . . Paris, France,” announces Dmitri, and we are off again.
After Paris, we hopscotch to Vienna, Antwerp, Helsinki, Budapest, Cairo, Madrid and Lisbon. We spend the night in an abandoned barn in Vermont, and in the morning leap to Vancouver and then Anchorage. By noon, we arrive in Munich. Just as Gerhard is about to step off, Abbie rushes over to him.
“Sorry, Gerhard, but I’ve got to do this,” she says, giving him a big hug.
“Me too,” I say, joining in.
He squirms a bit but lets the hug happen.
From Munich we leap to Oban and then to Wales. When we land in Wales, Judith walks up to me. If her shoulder is hurting her, she’s not letting on. My eyes are already brimming with tears.
&n
bsp; “Good-bye, Caleb,” she says, planting a kiss on my cheek. “This is for you.” She hands me a piece of paper.
I unfold it and read:
“Through a break in the pistachio sky
Rays of orange hope and drizzles of joy
Pulverize a thousand hushed yesterdays
And the time trapped fly free.
“It . . . it’s beautiful, Judith. Thank you,” I say.
She smiles, steps from the car and is gone.
When the doors close, the only ones left are Dmitri, Abbie and me.
“Where to next, Abbie?” I ask.
She looks at me with a sparkle in her eye. “That’s easy. Let’s go home.”
“Home?” I try to keep my tone light, but I can feel my heart beating wildly.
“Yes, Caleb, formerly of no fixed address. We’re going to your home and my new home.”
“Do you really mean it?” I say.
She nods. “Didn’t I mention that? I found a nice family to adopt me. My new school is just around the corner. And there’s a really cute guy who has his locker next to mine.”
My face drops for a second, until I realize she’s talking about me!
“Dmitri, do you have any plans for lunch?” I ask.
“Let me check my social calendar,” he says, in mock seriousness. “Hmmm. It does not appear that I have any other engagements.”
“Great. In that case, Boston, Massachusetts, January 6, 1968, please. The park across the street from 55 Derne Street should provide suitable parking.”
“Wait,” says Abbie. “Isn’t there anywhere that wouldn’t attract so much attention?”
She’s right. Landing in very public places while we were delivering the recruits back to their homes didn’t matter, because we didn’t stay in any one place more than a couple of minutes. And even then, we probably left headlines wherever we went.
Then it comes to me. “Well, there is another possibility, if you’re willing to do a bit of outdoors work.”
“I’m up for it,” says Abbie.
“Fine with me as well,” says Dmitri.
“All right, then please take us to the Hatch Shell on the Esplanade, Dmitri. I suggest you schedule our arrival for nine in the morning.”
As soon as we land and our time freeze thaws, we put on our thick coats and Dmitri opens the doors. We step out of the car into a winter wonderland. Snow sparkles in the early morning sun, and icicles glisten from the branches of the trees bordering the Hatch Shell. I have to squint against the brightness.
To my left is a giant, crouching tiger, and to my right, a castle with towers and turrets, both made entirely of ice and snow. Other, smaller snow sculptures stand nearby.
“Wow,” Abbie says. “It’s amazing! How did you know about this?”
“Believe it or not, I was skating on the river earlier this morning,” I say. “You can see some of these from there.”
Earlier this morning. It’s hard to believe, really. It seems like a lifetime ago.
There’s a small chalet just beyond the tiger sculpture. I walk over, find a coiled-up hose in a cupboard near the entrance and drag the hose back to Abbie and Dmitri.
“Heads up,” I say, turning the hose on full and aiming at the side of the subway car.
On contact, the water turns into a sheet of ice. We take turns spraying the sides of the car and then heap snow on top of it.
“Impressive! It looks like an actual subway car,” says Dmitri, and we all laugh.
January 6, 1968, 10:26 A.M.
Boston, Massachusetts
This is the place,” I say as we climb the porch steps of 55 Derne Street.
I’m about to open the door, when the feeling of having forgotten something hits me. But for the life of me, I don’t know what that is.
Someone’s coming to the door. I do a quick mental calculation. By my count, I’ve only been away, skating, for about two 1968 hours, so Jim and Diane shouldn’t be worried. But what if by chance they decided to surprise me and went to the Charles to try and find me?
As the door opens, I remember what I had forgotten: my skates! And my own jacket. Well, one thing’s for sure: I’m not going back to 2061 to fetch them.
“Hey, Caleb,” Jim says. “Did you have a good skate?”
“Yeah. It was great,” I say. “Jim, these are my friends Abbie and Dmitri. If it’s okay, I’d like to invite them in for lunch.”
“You can’t,” says Zach, poking his head out the door. “Because we’re not having lunch, Caleb. We’re having brunch! Hey, what happened to your hand?” He points to my bandaged wrist.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just had to have a little operation on my wrist to remove my time travel patch so we could use it to power the time machine that brought us here in time for brunch.”
Everyone laughs, including me.
“Well, come on in, everyone,” says Jim, opening the door wide.
“Caleb,” says Zach in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “we’ve got a surprise for you.”
“You do?” I say.
“Uh-huh,” Zach says, nodding. “You havta guess.”
“Okay, let’s see. Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“Yes.” Zach giggles.
“Smaller than the Empire State Building?”
“Of course, silly.” He laughs.
“Is it a pony?” I say.
“No. But you’re close . . . it’s alive. I mean she’s alive.”
“A puppy?” That’s really my best guess.
He shakes his head.
“Pussycat?”
“Nope.”
“I give up, Zach. What is it?”
“Not what, silly. A who. Your cousin came while you were skating.”
I stand stock-still and look at him. My cousin?
Abbie looks confused, but Dmitri is smiling. He knows something.
Footsteps on the stairs.
I hold my breath and look up.
My jaw falls open. For a moment I think I am seeing a mirage. But this is not the Barrens. This is Zach’s house in Boston. And the person standing in front of me is no hallucination.
“Nice place you got here, Jack,” Razor says.
January 6, 1968, 10:30 A.M.
Boston, Massachusetts
I can’t believe it. I reach out toward Razor, and she takes a step back.
“Hey, don’t get all lovey-dovey on me. Save that for her,” she says, pointing to Abbie.
My cheeks feel like they’re burning.
I glance from Razor to Abbie and then look at Dmitri.
He shrugs, smiles and says, “Phoebe helped me with the coordinates. You know, she can be quite delightful if you treat her right. She also provided the street address and names of the members of your adopted family so I was able to relay this information to Razor immediately prior to her ‘departure.’”
“C’mon, Caleb,” says Zach, “and your cousin and your friends and Mom and Daddy. I’m hungry for brunch. Daddy made pancakes. And he makes the best pancakes in the world.”
We all sit down around the kitchen table. It’s a tight squeeze, but somehow we manage it. Diane heaps pancakes on our plates.
“Caleb, guess where we’re going after brunch,” Zach says in between bites.
“I don’t know, Zach,” I say. “Where are we going?”
“Daddy is going to take all of us to see the snow sculptures!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Zach says. “He says there’s a snow tiger and a snow castle and a—”
“And a snow subway car from the future,” I add.
Zach looks at me with his eyebrows raised. “Cool!”
“Very,” I agree, slathering my pancakes with maple syrup.
As I raise the
fork to my mouth, Abbie is watching. She’s looking at me in a way that I’m sure is going to make me turn fire truck red. But somehow I’m not embarrassed.
My fork dives down again, snags a piece of pancake and brings it home.
RICHARD UNGAR has always been captivated by the idea of traveling through time and was inspired to write his first novel, Time Snatchers, by an image in Chris Van Allsburg’s picture book The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. Called “Another Place, Another Time,” the scene shows children riding a sail-propelled sidecar along a railway track that seems to go on forever.
A lawyer by profession, Richard was born in Montreal and lives in Toronto with his wife and two sons. He is the author-illustrator of the award-winning picture book Even Higher and the acclaimed Rachel series.
www.richard-ungar.com
facebook.com/TimeSnatchers
Twitter: @TimeSnatchers
CREDITS
Excerpt from “In the Highlands,” Robert Louis Stevenson, The Complete Poems of Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, 1923.
Excerpt from Mother Shipton: A Collection of the Earliest Editions of Her Prophecies, George Mann Books, 1978, United Kingdom.
Excerpt from “Scots Wa Ha’e Wi’ Wallace Bled,” a song with lyrics by Robert Burns, The Lyric Gems of Scotland: A collection of Scottish songs, original and selected, with music. First series. John Cameron, Glasgow, ca. 1874.
Further reading on historical topics from the story:
Cannan, Fergus. Scottish Arms and Armour. Oxford, England: Shire Publishers, 2009.
Fleischman, Sid. Escape! The Story of the Great Houdini. New York: Greenwillow Books, 2006.
Hamilton, Ian. Stone of Destiny: The True Story. Edinburgh: Birlinn Ltd., 2008.
O’Connor, Jane. The Emperor’s Silent Army: Terracotta Warriors of Ancient China. New York: Viking Children’s Books, 2002.
Randi, James, and Bert Randolph Sugar. Houdini, His Life and Art. New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1976.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Time Trapped is a work of fiction, but as with Time Snatchers, there is a historical basis for many of the events mentioned in this book (e.g., Houdini’s thrilling escape, bound and chained, from a sealed crate plunged into the East River; the Christmas 1950 heist by students of the Stone of Destiny from Westminster Abbey). I have been as accurate as possible with information about events and historical figures, though some details have been imagined to suit the storytelling.
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