The Time Travelers, Volume 2

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “I’m sorry,” she said humbly, but she was afraid.

  Her father and her beloved were hiding something, using a goddess who would gladly destroy them with one swipe of her immortal paw.

  Evil was coming, and Renifer was powerless to get out of its way.

  II

  Time to Fall

  ANNIE: 1999

  Suddenly the special Egyptian exhibition exploded with schoolchildren. Seventh graders, possibly eighth. Filled with the noisy excitement of a field trip, they had not the slightest intention of learning anything. They rattled around the exhibition while their teacher read aloud from placards.

  So she was not going to change centuries.

  Strat had done that for her. He was here. In her time.

  Annie wanted to touch Strat as tenderly as they had touched a hundred years ago. How perfect he still looked. He wore cargo pants and a navy sweater heavily knitted in braids and whorls. He could have been a young sailor from some Irish island, whose sister or mother had been knitting all winter to create this masterpiece. Strat’s hair was the same moppy annoying badly cut hair she had known a hundred years ago. He had worn a cute little cap then, the kind men wore when they drove automobiles with open tops and running boards.

  Annie had a moment of regret. Other times were so much more exciting and romantic. Neither word could ever be used to describe the suburbs of New York City. She had bought the adventure outfit not to travel into New York, but to travel into 1899. And now she wouldn’t get to go.

  A yelling knot of boys jostled them, and then an elbowing cluster of girls. Their teacher raised her voice and loudly proclaimed her views of ancient Egyptian art. The class scattered in all directions.

  The boy Strat was paying more attention to the photograph than to Annie. Finally he said to Annie, “I think you’re right.” He smiled in a friendly bland way, only half looking at her. A shock wave went through Annie Lockwood.

  He did not know her. She was going to have to introduce herself to a boy whose smile and hair and kiss she remembered so well. “What am I right about?” she said weakly. “I don’t see Strat in the picture.”

  “Stratton was the photographer, remember, so he isn’t in any of the pictures. But I’m curious. How do you know about Stratton?”

  Annie never thought of him as Stratton. To her, he had always been Strat. To a boy who did not remember her, however, she could hardly say, “I used to date you, a hundred years ago.” So she said, “I read that Strat left his home in America and went to Egypt.”

  “Where did you read that?” asked the boy excitedly. “Because our family has tried to find out more about him. You see, Stratton was my great-grandmother’s brother. His full name was Hiram Stratton, Jr.”

  That’s what you think, thought Annie Lockwood. You are Hiram Stratton, Jr.

  Then his words sank in. This boy’s great-grandmother was the sister of Strat. That would be Devonny. So he wasn’t Annie’s Strat at all. He had not come through Time. He was nothing but the descendant of a sister. Some distant cousin killing time in a museum. Oh, surely not! Time wouldn’t do that to her.

  “We have other photos that Stratton took, also in Egypt,” said the boy, “but he didn’t leave many trails for us to follow. We don’t know what happened to him later. What book did you read it in?”

  She hadn’t read it anywhere. She’d been there. “What is your name again?” she asked.

  “They call me Strat. But my real name is Lockwood Stratton.”

  Annie Lockwood nearly fell over. He possessed her last name as his first name? That could not be coincidence.

  Eighth-grade boys swarmed like hornets around the gold Sekhmet, bumping into Strat’s knees and Annie’s back.

  “We can’t concentrate on the exhibition until this class has moved on,” said Annie. “Want to go to the museum cafeteria and have a dessert with me? I’d love to hear about your family. You see”—she considered a reasonable lie—“I think we have a photograph of Strat’s too.”

  “You talk as if you know him,” teased the boy. “He died a hundred years ago, you know.”

  “He lived a hundred years ago,” Annie corrected him.

  They walked down the magnificent stairs, which made Annie feel like a princess in a palace. The boy tapped one of the names incised on the walls: Hiram Stratton, Sr. “My great-great-grandfather,” he said.

  A man Annie had encountered another time. The cruelest man she had ever met. A man who had sworn to destroy his own son—and had. A man who had sworn to destroy the mother of his own children—and had. A man who …

  Annie’s head swam. A veil came between her and the names of the donors. The letters fell off the walls and onto her face like hail, pelting her with memory.

  Time opened like a cellar door, for her to fall into blackness.

  Hiram Stratton even now was planning to destroy … something … someone …

  Her feet slipped on the marble steps.

  It had been this way before. A first falling, then a second. Then, at last, the step through Time. Scudding across the years like a ship in a high wind.

  A guard leaned his face into hers. How antique his features, how dark and wind-beaten his glance. For a moment, the guard stood on the far side of Time. But then he was just a museum employee. Had she skipped breakfast? he wanted to know. He didn’t want her to faint and fall on the stone steps and hurt herself.

  “I caught her,” said the boy, putting his arm around her. Annie knew that hand. The hand on Annie’s shoulder was Strat’s hand. “She’s fine,” he told the guard. “We’re on our way to the cafeteria anyway. I’ll see she has something to eat.”

  He pulled Annie to her feet and they walked on together, not touching. Not touching him made her ache. She had known the ache before, too. This was Strat. The real thing. Not a distant cousin.

  Time! she called silently. Strat’s here. Forget what I asked for. I don’t want to change centuries after all. I don’t need to anymore. You can leave.

  But she had called upon Time too strongly.

  Time, having listened, would answer.

  KATIE: 1899

  Katie washed out the teacups, which she had borrowed from Mother Superior when she found she had a guest. A guest who offered to save her, bring her home and even provide her with an income!

  But with what speed Miss Camilla Matthews had departed. Having squinted at Strat’s letters, she was done. She did not care about seeing Douglass, nor did she wish a tour of the hospital.

  I trusted her, thought Katie. Here among nuns, I let myself believe that being a woman makes a person good. I, with my childhood! I know that gender does not predict goodness.

  Katie beat her fists on the tiny tea table. Then she ripped off her veil and sobbed into her hands. At St. Rafael, she was usually at peace with the Lord and the cruelly formed body into which He had placed her. Now she felt assaulted. This woman—girl, really, hardly older than Katie herself—had connived and lied and encouraged Katie to expose the thoughts of her heart.

  It wouldn’t be Devonny trying to find Strat. If Strat wished to communicate with Devonny, he could do so—and probably had.

  It was Hiram Stratton, Sr., who had enough money and interest to send a woman across the ocean to ply Katie with falsehoods.

  Hiram Stratton, Sr., could not tolerate defeat. He did not care who had to be crushed as long as he was the victor. Not only had his one and only son talked back and offered unusual opinions, but then the boy refused to marry Harriett, whose hand Mr. Stratton had chosen for Strat. First among virtues in a son was absolute obedience. When Strat failed to display it, Mr. Stratton put him in an asylum so that his will would be broken.

  Katie herself had heard the asylum doctor read aloud the letters he wrote to Mr. Stratton, describing how Strat whimpered and cringed like a kicked dog. But Mr. Stratton had not won, in the end, for by fair means or foul, Strat had defeated both the asylum and his father.

  What destruction might come to Strat
now, at the hands of this Camilla Matthews?

  Katie composed a cable, telegrams being a marvel of technology. Why, this cable would arrive in Egypt long before Miss Matthews could even find a ship! Truly, the nineteenth century was a magnificent time. Katie trembled to think of the twentieth, only weeks away, and what might be invented in those decades.

  STRAT. DANGER. MY FAULT. IMMEDIATELY LEAVE EGYPT. YOUR FATHER IN PURSUIT. HIS AGENT A WOMAN, CAMILLA MATTHEWS. LETTER FOLLOWS. LOVE KATIE.

  She took the carefully printed telegram and more than enough money to cover the cost of sending it to Cairo and went to the gate of the hospital. The gate was not to keep patients in, but to warn strangers away.

  She had not left since the day Strat sailed. His letters were her only door to the world. And now, stepping beyond the pale, she remembered the world!

  The profile of a Moorish castle and a row of green cedars. An ancient Roman aqueduct against a blue sky and a street market down the hill, full of children and laughter. The clop of horses’ hoofs and the clatter of wagon wheels called her name.

  What temptation to give up her cause and walk away from her patients into sunshine and safety. Beyond the beautiful city lay a gleaming sea. She herself could carry the warning to Strat. He had been a true friend, such a few on earth ever have.

  But if Katie went to him, she would be a burden. Strat would have to figure out what to do with her … when there was nothing to do with her.

  Katie prayed. The Lord strengthened her.

  Then she called out to a friendly-looking passerby. She spoke in Spanish, of course, having learned it easily. She was proud of her accent. “Will you deliver a cable to the telegram office, please? Here is plenty of money, and a good tip as well.”

  The man pointed to the ground halfway between them. Katie set down her precious warning, piling coins on top so the wind would not blow the page away. She gave the man God’s blessing and returned to the enclosure.

  When she had shut the gate behind her, tears assaulted her: for herself and for all ruined lives. And while she prayed for calmness of heart, the man in the street walked on without pausing. Nothing would make him handle what a leper had touched.

  A wagon passed by. The wheels sent the coins flying into the dust and tore the cable in half. Later a child found one of the coins and bought food.

  ARCHIBALD LIGHTNER: 1899

  Archibald Lightner was furious. He had enough to do without having to go into Cairo and rescue his foolish photographer. “I’ve half a mind to fire you,” he said when he finally stomped into the French embassy. “You can’t even do a decent watercolor.”

  “I’m the photographer,” the boy protested. “I never said I could paint.”

  “Well, then, you should be more versatile,” snapped Archibald Lightner. His dig was full of stupid people. Of course, he was of the opinion that most people were stupid, but one always hoped to avoid them. Or at least not hire them.

  “Actually,” said the boy, “you aren’t paying me anything.”

  Dr. Lightner remembered now. Something to do with a leper colony. The boy certainly looked healthy. In fact, he looked perfect. Archibald, who was beaky, gawky and gaunt, had always wanted to look like this young man. Bronze and strong, like a Greek statue. Archibald resembled a heron.

  “What is your full name, anyway?” he said irritably. He had searched the boy’s possessions, hoping to find a passport, but paperwork was not required at most borders, and it did not look as if the boy possessed any. In fact, other than love letters from a girl named Katie, the boy possessed virtually nothing.

  I don’t know a thing about him, thought Dr. Lightner. Perhaps I should request that he move on. If I give him money, he will be eager to do so. On the other hand, I pay him nothing, and in exchange he gives me fine photographs.

  “I cannot lie to you, sir,” said the boy, his cheeks turning red. “I must tell you my full name, although I beg that you not use it. I am Hiram Stratton, Jr.”

  “Your father is Hiram Stratton?” Archibald Lightner was astonished. He had perceived the camera boy as a servant, just above the natives who toted rubble. Hiram Stratton was one of those astonishing Americans who had achieved inconceivable wealth, and now, bored by wives and mansions, was giving it away. People were lined up, hoping their museum or hospital or library might be handed a vast sum.

  Archibald Lightner considered how he might spend a vast sum. Quickly and enjoyably, he decided.

  “How is it that the son of Hiram Stratton has no possessions except a change of clothing and a camera?” asked Dr. Lightner. “Are you being fully honest in this matter?”

  “My father and I are estranged,” said the boy stiffly. “I do not possess a dime of his, nor do I anticipate a return to his household.”

  “You will pardon the insult implied by my next remark, Mr. Stratton.” (For he could not continue to address the youth as if he were mere staff.) “But when a young son is so deeply estranged, one must wonder if the son committed misdeeds so great that he dare not return to the bosom of his family.”

  The French, who were always committing misdeeds so great that they dare not return to the bosom of their families, liked Strat better now.

  Strat flushed deeply. “I ask you, sir. Is it not possible that the misdeeds were committed by the father? Perhaps the son has chosen a life in which he and his father’s misdeeds will not collide.”

  The French were satisfied. Not only was the young man from a fine family, he cast off wealth as if it mattered not. He was morally above his own parent, refusing to be stained by his father. It was worthy of an opera.

  The attaché said, “We accept, monsieur, that our two citizens were careless and caused their own deaths. We regret this unfortunate episode here in Cairo, Mr. Stratton.” There was bowing and nodding and stroking of mustaches.

  They patted the Stratton heir on the shoulder as he left.

  Dr. Lightner was not so quick to believe in the boy. All America knew that Hiram Stratton, Sr., had done evil things en route to becoming rich.

  The apple, thought Archibald Lightner, does not fall far from the tree. Hiram Stratton, Jr., might travel halfway around the world to escape being his father’s son, but he is still his father’s son. And that means he has the capacity for evil.

  ANNIE: 1999

  In the center of each table in the museum restaurant were folding paper pyramids describing the exhibit. Annie yearned to keep one. Should she ask the waitress and risk being refused, or just quietly fold it up and slip it into her purse?

  The tables were jammed next to one another. Inches away, an elderly couple argued hotly about the same problem. “Fine,” said the husband testily, “steal one.”

  His wife glared at him and tucked the paper pyramid into her purse. “It isn’t stealing, Albert. It’s a souvenir. Besides, lunch was expensive.”

  “It’s stealing,” said the husband, as if he might summon New York’s Finest, arrest his wife, and be done with it.

  The boy was laughing. “That’s the thing about marriage,” he whispered to Annie. “The decades pile up and so do tempers.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Annie. “But sometimes they rescue themselves. My parents left today on their second honeymoon.”

  “Really? How nice. Did they get married again and everything?”

  Annie nodded. “My mother went on a killer diet so she could fit into her wedding gown again, and Dad into his same tux. My brother was best man and I was maid of honor. We even had the same guests. It was fun in an embarrassing kind of way.” She skipped the part about the affair her father had promised to abandon. Who knew whether to believe him? But Mom believed, and it was her marriage.

  She said, “I remember that Hiram Stratton, Sr., made a fortune in railroads. I never knew he was a philanthropist.” If I could touch your hair, she thought, I would know whether you are my Strat.

  But they were sitting opposite each other in a public place and he thought they were strangers. “The fami
ly legend is that Hiram Stratton, Sr., disowned Hiram Stratton, Jr., because Junior went insane. Junior took up gentle Victorian activities like watercolors and eventually went to Egypt for a rest cure. He took a few photographs for the Lightner dig and then—who knows?”

  They called him Strat, not Junior, thought Annie. And he wasn’t insane. He loved me. Of course, my brother, Tod, would call that insane. “So you’re Devonny’s great-grandchild,” she said instead.

  “You make it sound as if you and Grandmother Devonny met,” he said, laughing.

  We did, thought Annie. She sent me on a mission, to save Strat from the asylum. But it went wrong in the end, and we had to part.

  “Devonny Stratton married an Englishman,” he explained. “They had two children. The older son became an earl or something, but the younger son came back to America and called himself Lockwood Stratton. His son, my father, was plain old Bill Stratton, and now I’m Lockwood Stratton again. Ridiculous British-type name, huh?”

  No. Lockwood was not a ridiculous British-type name.

  It was a ridiculous American-type name. Annie’s.

  Annie folded and unfolded the paper pyramid to distract herself. She swallowed her latte. She loved the puffy creaminess and the soft sugar at the bottom. “I’m a Lockwood myself. My name is Annie Lockwood. It would be,” she said carefully, “somebody in my family that Devonny got the name from.” Because I tried to save Strat, she thought. And maybe I did. I’ve never really known.

  “That is so terrific! Then we’re related, in a nonrelated kind of way.”

  He had Strat’s smile. The one that said, This is the best day and you are the best person to spend it with.

  The second falling came.

  She gripped the tiny restaurant table and did not fall completely. It was more the dizziness that hits anyone from time to time: a skidding of the mind, the tires of your thoughts on black ice. She could not quite see the boy’s face, and could not quite remember Strat’s, and then it was over, and Lockwood Stratton was studying the bill.