Time Snatchers

by Richard Ungar

  “Deal,” I say.

  I step out of the elevator and head to the lounge. In the wardrobe closet, I find a long hooded Buddhist monk’s robe and a pair of sandals. I also spot a cloth bag that’s perfect for carrying the replica of the Xuande vase.

  “Take an umbrella with you,” says Phoebe. “They’re calling for rain.”

  “How does he get away with it, Phoebe?” I ask.

  “Beg your pardon?” says Phoebe.

  It strikes me as strange that a computer is asking me to repeat what I’ve just said. After all, it’s not like she’s hard of hearing. She’s probably just playing with me. “I said, ‘How does he get away with it?’ What I mean is, how can Frank shadow me while I’m on missions and interfere with my snatches without ever getting into any trouble with Uncle?”

  “That’s easy,” she answers. “He’s more devious and ruthless than you, and an expert manipulator.”

  She’s right. Frank is all those things. But I can’t be like him. I don’t want to be like him. And if life was fair, Frank wouldn’t get away with half the stuff he does. But life isn’t fair, is it?

  “And while we’re on the subject of manipulation,” she says, “since you’re not a bad kid, I’m going to share another little tidbit with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your snatch partner might not be going all the way to the dark side.”

  I swear I can feel Phoebe’s eyes on me studying me for a reaction, which is of course ridiculous because she doesn’t have any eyes, unless you count all the hidden cameras sprinkled throughout Headquarters.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, she’s spending an awful lot of time in the company of a certain person with curly black hair. And she seems to be liking it,” says Phoebe.

  “How can she possibly like him?” The words burst from my mouth before I can stop them. It’s not like I even want or need Phoebe’s advice on the subject.

  “I didn’t say she likes him,” she says. “I said she seems to. There’s a difference. And it’s a big one. Personally, I don’t think Frank gets the difference. He just thinks his hormones are irresistible to all members of the opposite sex, including Abbie. But what he doesn’t get, what he hasn’t figured out,” she continues, switching to a whisper, “is that Abbie has an endgame.”

  “An endgame?” I whisper back.

  “Yes, indeedy,” says Phoebe with a trace of satisfaction in her voice. “She’s playing him like a violin.”

  “What’s she after?” I ask.

  “How should I know?” Phoebe hisses. “I’m not a mind reader.”

  Her tone tells me she’s finished sharing. “Right,” I say heading for the fire escape. She’s certainly given me a lot to think about.

  “And one other piece of free advice,” she says just as I’m about to step out onto the fire escape. “If you like someone, they’ll never know it unless you show it.”

  I feel my ears getting warm. How does Phoebe know?

  “I … I have to go,” I say.

  “So go, then,” she says. “I’m not stopping you. And don’t forget my present!”

  As I program my wrist for 1423, I think about Phoebe’s words. “She’s playing him like a violin.” If Phoebe’s right, then Abbie is only faking liking Frank. Which makes me feel a lot better. Maybe she really is on my side.

  Even so, my problems are far from over. I’m playing a dangerous game, trying to outsnatch Frank. If I go back earlier in time to beat him, he’ll just counter by going back even earlier.

  But if I do nothing, that’s the same as inviting Frank to ruin my next mission and the one after that. No way. This time I’m going to take a stand. This time I’m not going to let him win.

  April 23, 1423, 9:09 A.M.

  Hills near Jngdézhèn, China

  I’m rolling down a hillside.

  There’s no way to stop myself until the time freeze is over, so I just go with the roll. For the next three seconds, my mind conjures up images of all sorts of nasty obstacles that I’m about to crash into, including sharp-edged boulders and thick tree trunks.

  Luckily, the slope eases off around the same time that my time freeze thaws. It’s a good thing too, because only a few feet from where I finally come to a stop, the slope changes from gentle and soft to steep and rocky.

  As I stand up and brush myself off, I make a mental note never again to program my patch when I’m time fogged. Luckily, I wasn’t far off. I’d actually planned to land on the hill—but on the crest, not the side.

  Even though I’m not at the top, I still have an excellent view. A few hundred feet below is a village partly shrouded in fog. I see about thirty thatched huts, but there might be more hiding under the mist. That must be the village of Jngdézhèn.

  But what really gets my attention are a dozen or so egg-shaped structures scattered on the surrounding hillsides. Dark smoke rises out of some of them, and clustered around each is a sprinkling of smaller, square huts.

  A narrow trail skirts the hillside about fifty feet away, and I start moving toward it, picking my way over boulders and through thickets. Some of the bushes have sharp nettles, and a couple of times I have to backtrack to avoid them.

  By the time I reach the trail, my shirt is drenched in sweat. Just as I turn onto the path, a young boy appears on the trail ahead of me. He’s barefoot and wearing only a tattered shirt that comes down to just below his knees.

  “Hello,” I say, giving him a friendly wave.

  The boy just stares at me.

  I’m not expecting him to say hello back. At least not in English. But I’m hoping that he’ll say something, anything, so that my translator can kick in.

  He continues to stare at me. It’s starting to get on my nerves. I know it’s juvenile of me, but I stare right back at him, hoping that if he won’t say anything, at least he’ll blink first and look away.

  No such luck. In fact, the boy is soon joined by some of his friends, also barefoot and barely dressed, who join in the staring contest.

  I try again, this time with the older ones. “Hi, there,” I say.

  Nothing.

  Somehow, word must be getting out about me, because more people keep showing up. I’m soon surrounded by about twenty kids and adults.

  I pick one of the adults for my next attempt at communication. “Excuse me, but I have come from very far to find the artist Wu Yingxing. Can you please direct me to his studio?”

  No one’s answering me, but there is some progress. A few of the adults have taken their eyes off me and are talking among themselves.

  An old man finally steps forward. His brown face is weathered and heavily wrinkled.

  Before I can say anything, he reaches out with a knobby finger, touches my face and traces a line down my cheek. Then he turns to the others and says, “So white. And the white is soft.”

  The good thing is my translator is working. The bad thing is he’s just announced to everybody that I’m a pillow, and now they all swarm me, wanting to touch my face.

  Then it dawns on me. I should have looked before I leapt. That is, I should have figured out that I would likely be the first white person these people have ever seen. And I should have disguised myself better before coming here. Should have but didn’t. It’s this business with Frank. It’s got me making mistakes.

  So much for flying under the radar.

  “Wu Yingxing is an artisan with the Imperial Guild,” says the old man, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s my first real breakthrough since I arrived.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Can you please show me where his studio is?”

  I must have said something very funny, because I can hear tittering and chuckling in the crowd.

  The old man finally replies. “He does not have his own studio. He works with many others.”

  “I see,” I say. And I really do. Artists in every century have always had a tough time getting by. It makes perfect sense to me that he’d want to split the rent.
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  “I would be grateful if you can lead me to where he works,” I say.

  The old man looks at me for a moment and then turns and says something to the others in a voice too soft for me to pick up. Whatever he says, though, sparks a heated debate. I only catch snippets of it because everyone is talking and there are too many voices for my translator to handle at once.

  The lively discussion goes on for about five minutes, and then, just as suddenly as it began, everyone falls silent. The old man turns to me and says, “We were not able to agree on who shall have the honor of accompanying you to the workplace of Wu Yingxing. So it has been decided that we shall all go.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “But that’s really not necessary.”

  Necessary or not, I’m outvoted. We start out along the trail, adults in front, children at the back and me sandwiched in between. The footing is tricky in spots, so I walk mostly with my head down, focusing on where to place my next step. When I finally look up, I’m surprised to see that our little delegation isn’t headed toward Jngdézhèn at all. Rather, we’re headed away from it, toward one of those egg-shaped huts on the next hillside.

  This is great. I’ve got my own honor guard. And what will I do when I find the real Xuande vase? Tell them all to close their eyes for a moment so that I can exchange it for the replica and then vanish?

  Our procession continues along the trail and up the hillside. The old man is setting a blistering pace, and I’m huffing to keep up.

  A wave of dizziness comes over me, and I stumble forward and almost fall. I was afraid of this. I knew I should have spent more time in 2061 before coming back to the past. The short visit to New Beijing obviously wasn’t long enough to clear my time fog.

  After about twenty minutes of walking, we arrive at the top of the hill. The air is filled with smoke and some smells that I can’t identify. I crane my neck to see around the nine or ten adults from my procession who are standing in front of me.

  The hilltop is a hive of activity. People are hurrying around and shouting back and forth to each other. Still, when I look closer, I can see that there seems to be an order to the madness. Everyone, and by that I mean the men since there aren’t any women in sight, has his own job to do. Some carry firewood. Others are seated on the ground kneading or pounding what looks to be white clay. Yet others are forming the clay into shapes, pouring it into molds or trimming the edges with knives. There are five guys sketching outlines of animals directly onto the clay vases.

  My gaze shifts to the egg-shaped hut. It’s easily the size of three of the square huts and is made entirely of sunbaked bricks. I’m guessing this is a kiln, where the clay vases and other objects are fired at high temperatures to harden them into porcelain. Two men are peering into it through small holes. They are wrapped mummy-like from head to toe in strips of clothing. Even their faces and hands are covered.

  Someone says something, and my honor guard parts like the Red Sea, giving me a clear view of the workers. And them of me. Then, as if on some hidden signal, all the workers drop to their knees and kowtow deeply in my direction.

  Another wave of dizziness hits me. This one’s stronger than the last one, and it takes all my willpower to stay upright.

  “What’s going on?” I ask the old man, once I’ve gathered myself.

  “The workers believe you are T’ung,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “T’ung,” he repeats.

  He must see the blank look on my face because he says, “T’ung is the god of the potters. He had a human life before he became a god. It is said that when he was a young man, he leapt into the blazing heat of the kiln to attempt to save some workers.”

  “Did he get them all out?” I ask.

  The old man smiles. “The men were not in the kiln, only the dragon fish bowls they had made. But until T’ung appeared, each time the men tried to fire the dragon fish bowls, the bowls emerged from the kiln scorched and ruined. And each time this happened, the eunuch masters who ruled over the workmen beat them badly with sticks. When T’ung heard of the men’s plight, the next time they tried to fire the dragon fish bowls, he leapt into the blazing heat of the kiln.”

  “And then what happened?” I ask.

  “The dragon fish bowls emerged from the kiln perfectly fired. But T’ung had vanished. From that day forward, the workers worshipped T’ung as god of the potters, and on the very same spot where the miracle occurred, the workers built a temple in his honor.”

  What a nice story. Too bad they have the wrong guy. I’m just about to break the news to the workers when I stop myself. The story’s got me thinking. Maybe I could be T’ung, at least for a little while …

  “Please tell them to rise and get on with their work,” I say to the old man.

  He says something and everyone begins to get up slowly.

  “Can you also please find Wu Yingxing? I would like to speak with him.” My words come out slurred. It must be the time fog.

  The old man turns to one of the workers, who hurries away. In a moment, he’s back with a skinny man who looks better dressed than most of the others.

  On seeing me, the thin man immediately drops to his knees and kowtows.

  “Is this him?” I ask the old man.

  He nods.

  I reach my hand forward and signal for Wu to stand.

  “I am an admirer of your work,” I say, “and am honored to meet you.”

  “Next to your great works, Heavenly Master, the work of my hands is awkward and childlike,” says Wu.

  What a flatterer. I’d like to stand around and trade compliments with him but I’ve got to get this done quickly. The time fog is really beginning to do a number on me.

  So I cut to the chase and say, “There is one piece in particular that I admire.”

  “May it please the Great T’ung,” he says, “any piece of my work that finds favor in your eyes, I will bestow upon you as a gift from your humble servant …”

  It’s an offer I can’t refuse.

  But just as I open my mouth to put my order in, he continues, “Except for one piece that I have already promised to the emperor.”

  Rats. Nothing’s ever easy.

  “Would that piece by chance be a vase with a dragon and phoenix design on it and the symbol of the House of Confucius painted next to the Mark of the Reign?” I ask.

  “My Lord sees all,” says Wu.

  “Not all. Just some,” I say. “Before I leave this place, it would please me to gaze upon this work that you have promised to the emperor.” Wow, I’m even starting to talk like a god.

  “Certainly, Master of All Artisans,” says Wu.

  He gives a little bow, does a half turn and shouts in the general direction of the kiln, “Shen, have you fired the special order for the emperor yet?”

  One of the mummy men, presumably Shen, shouts back, “It’s in the kiln and I can go get it soon.”

  Soon. Now, there’s a great word. It can mean anything from two seconds to two years, depending on what you’re talking about and who’s doing the talking.

  I’m about to open my mouth to cross-examine Wu on how soon is “soon” when I hear a commotion coming from the next hillside. I turn and see a large procession, about fifty yards up the trail, headed our way.

  My stomach clenches when I see a white face framed by curly black hair among the group.

  Immediately I duck behind Wu. There’s still a chance Frank hasn’t seen me yet. I’ve got to act fast. But you can’t hurry up a kiln. Those things are hot—well over a thousand degrees.

  My eyes ping-pong between Frank’s procession and Shen stationed outside the kiln. They’re closer now—only about thirty yards away.

  Just then, Shen springs into action, opening the kiln doors and stepping inside.

  I sprint toward the kiln. Except that it’s really more trot than sprint. My legs feel so heavy that running is simply out of the question.

  After what seems like forever, I finally reach the kiln
and hurry inside, closing the doors behind me. A wave of intense heat washes over me, and it’s hard to breathe.

  It’s dark inside, but the small holes let in enough daylight for me to see. I remove my cloak and say, “Where is it, Shen?” trying to hide the very ungodlike desperation in my voice.

  “Here, O Great One,” he says, pointing to a small ledge on the kiln’s second level.

  And there it is. The Xuande vase. Even in the dim light, it’s magnificent. The dragon and the phoenix have been exquisitely rendered in cobalt blue, and the overall effect is breathtaking. Funny I should feel that way about it. After all, I’ve seen the vase on a holo and also in replica form. I guess nothing beats the real thing.

  A wave of dizziness rocks me, and I reach out a hand for support. But there’s nothing to hold on to, so I sink to my knees. My head is still spinning, and for a moment I forget where I am. I try moving my arms, but they feel disconnected, like they belong to someone else.

  Shen drops down beside me, looking bewildered. Ordinarily I’d say something reassuring but I’ve got my own problems to deal with right now.

  I close my eyes for a moment and then open them. There is something important that I must do. If only I could remember what.

  A vase. Yes, something about a vase.

  Crawling on all fours now toward a beautiful vase depicting a flying dragon and phoenix.

  There are markings on the vase: a reign mark and, right above that, a small star symbolizing the House of Confucius.

  I take a deep breath of the hot air. My thoughts begin to clear and then in a flash I remember what I have come here to do.

  Still, I hesitate. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead as panic seizes me. What if it doesn’t work?

  No. Positive thoughts only. It must work. It will work.

  With Shen watching, I remove the replica from my bag and set it down next to the real Xuande vase. I use my cloak as a pot holder to pick up the original and place it inside my bag. I can feel the heat of the vase clear through to my hands, and I almost drop it.

  Shouts. Coming from nearby.

  Shen doesn’t move or say anything. He looks stunned by my actions. I can guess what’s going through his mind. He’s probably asking himself if I’m a god or a thief. Whatever he picks as his answer, I don’t envy him. He’s got to explain all of this to the others.