“Caleb, zaˇo shàng haˇo!” says Uncle, turning.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
“Please.” He gestures toward a spot on the floor between Abbie and Frank.
Nassim stays put by the doorway, arms folded over his chest.
As I sit down, Frank shoots me a glance, but I ignore him.
“Now that everyone is present, let us begin,” says Uncle. “You may be wondering why I have called you here this morning. But I think not. I think that you know the reason. After all, the three of you are very intelligent.”
I glance at Abbie out of the corner of my eye. She’s sitting ramrod straight and looks as tense as I feel.
“And being the intelligent time snatchers that you are, you would have very quickly deduced that something in this room is not quite right. What do you think that might be, Caleb?”
My mouth is dry, and my words come out raspy. “There are two vases when there should only be one.”
“Precisely. But why should I complain? I send my time snatchers out to steal one Xuande vase and instead they come back with two. I should be overjoyed, should I not?”
He leaves the question hanging out there. None of us dare touch it.
“But in this case there can only be one original, isn’t that right, Abbie? The other must be a replica.”
“That’s right, Uncle,” says Abbie. To her credit, I don’t detect even a slight hitch in her voice.
Uncle turns back to the aquarium and presses a button on the control panel. Scores of tiny goldfish stream into the aquarium. In a flash, one of the turtles—Ting Ting, I think—is upon them, devouring several with each snap of his jaws. Shu Fang appears content to wait for leftovers.
“Well, then, we have a dilemma. Frank, I will start with you. This was not your snatch. How was it that you became involved?”
“It’s true, Uncle,” Frank says. “This wasn’t my snatch. But I happened to see Caleb and Abbie at Expo 67 when I was there on … other business. So, I decided to keep an eye on them just to make sure they didn’t mess up.”
“Whatever would make you think that two of my top time snatchers needed a babysitter?” says Uncle. His voice is so cold. I’ve never heard him speak to Frank this way.
I can sense Frank squirming beside me. There’s no good answer to that question. Even for Frank.
“I … I don’t know, Uncle. It was just a feeling I had.”
Uncle paces slowly back and forth in front of the aquarium, hands clasped behind his back. It looks like he is deep in thought, weighing Frank’s words. But it’s all a show. I’ll bet my carving that he planned exactly how this meeting would go long before any of us stepped into his office.
“I see. You had a ‘feeling.’ Tell me, then, at what point did you decide that it was incumbent on you to perform their snatch?”
“At about the twenty-eight-minute mark from when they arrived, I checked up on them and noticed that neither of them was at the snatch zone. So I thought I’d better do the snatch myself.”
A sound escapes from Uncle’s mouth that I’ve never heard before. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s a kind of mocking laugh.
“You seem to have known quite a bit about their snatch,” he says. “What time they arrived, where the snatch zone was and, apparently, what the snatch object was. How was it that you knew all of this when mission information is strictly confidential between me, Nassim and the assigned time snatchers?”
“Caleb was bragging about it in the dorm,” says Frank without skipping a beat. “He said it was a very important snatch to you, Uncle, and rubbed it in my face that he and Abbie were picked to do it and not me and Lydia.”
“That’s a lie,” I shout.
Uncle raises his hand toward me. “Do not interrupt, please. Now, Frank, before you performed the snatch, did you scan the snatch object to determine whether it was a replica?”
“I couldn’t do a proper scan because I didn’t have the mission file,” Frank answers. “But I didn’t need to. Before they abandoned the snatch, I overheard Caleb tell Abbie that he had scanned the snatch object and that it was the original.”
He’s lying through his teeth. But I can see why. He’s trying to pin the blame on me.
“Hmmm,” says Uncle, “if the one you snatched was the original, how is it, then, that there are two vases here?”
“Theirs must be a replica,” says Frank.
“I see,” says Uncle, turning toward me.
“And what do you say, Caleb? Is your vase a replica?”
“No, Uncle, it is not,” I say.
“Well, then, we are no closer to discovering the truth, are we? Abbie, is there anything you care to add to the discussion at this point?”
“No, Uncle,” she says.
Is that all? Isn’t she going to say something like “the one we snatched is definitely the original”? Or “it’s obvious that Frank is lying”? Or even just “I agree with Caleb”?
Uncle lets out a long sigh. “I suppose we should put an end to this mystery. Nassim, the hammer please.”
Hammer? I can’t believe it. He’s going to smash one of the vases! I don’t understand … destroying it won’t tell him if it’s a replica. And what if he destroys the original by mistake?
Nassim strides over to where Uncle is standing and hands him a silver hammer.
“Now, let us see. Which one will we start with first. How about yours, Frank?”
I can see that Frank is trying to hold it together but his right knee is shaking like a leaf. Here’s his chance. Maybe if he says it’s a replica now, he’ll get off a bit easier. But he says nothing.
In a single motion, Uncle raises the hand with the hammer well over his head and brings it smashing down on Frank’s vase.
With a loud crash, the vase shatters into about twenty pieces.
Nassim, broom and dustpan in hand, moves forward, but Uncle holds up his hand, “Not just yet,” he says. Then he bends down, picks up one of the shards and examines it.
I exchange glances with Abbie. It’s clear from her wide eyes that, like me, she has no idea what’s going on.
After a moment, Uncle drops the shard to the floor and moves to his left. Now he’s standing over the vase that I snatched from the kiln near Jngdézhèn. The hammer is still in his hand. I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Surely he won’t.
Uncle lifts the hammer high over his head, pauses and then brings the hammer smashing down on the Xuande vase.
I gasp.
Somewhere in my brain, it registers that the sound made by the hammer’s contact this time is different. But that thought is overruled by another that screams, He has just destroyed the original Xuande vase!
The broken remains of the Xuande vase lie on the table. Without a trace of emotion, Uncle lays the hammer down, picks up two of the fragments, studies them and places them back on the table. Then he picks up the largest fragment and turns it this way and that.
As he does this, I notice what looks like a thin dark line on one side of the fragment. At first I think the line is painted on, but then, as Uncle continues to rotate the piece in his hands, I realize that it is not a line at all. It’s an opening. The piece is hollow.
Uncle reaches beneath his hanfu and withdraws a pair of tweezers. Next he inserts them into the narrow opening in the shard.
My mouth goes dry. On either side of me, Abbie and Frank are craning their necks forward.
When he withdraws the tweezers, they are gripping something. A strip of paper? No. Not paper. But something that is paper thin.
A smile plays across Uncle’s lips as he holds the brittle thing up to the light.
“Exquisite. Do you know what I’m holding?” he says.
I’m glad Uncle didn’t put my name at the end of his question, because I have no idea.
“This is a fragment of one of the earliest versions of the Analects of Confucius. Have you heard about the Analects, Caleb?”
“No, Uncle, I haven’t,” I say.
/>
“The Analects are the teachings of Confucius, first committed to writing by his students. One of his most passionate students was his grandson, Zisi, who recorded his grandfather’s teachings on strips of bamboo.
“The strips were passed from generation to generation among the descendants of Confucius. Certain of them were acquired by an artisan by the name of Wu Yingxing.”
Uncle is in his element. I’m trying to focus on his story, but all I can do is stare at the pieces of the broken Xuande vase.
“Wu did not have any children to bequeath his treasure to. So, when he became old and sensed his own death was near, he decided to do something special. He made a vase with hollow walls and slipped the precious bamboo strips inside. And to mark the vase as the special one, he engraved upon it the symbol of Confucius.”
Uncle shifts his gaze from me to Frank. I let out a long breath.
“Well, Frank,” says Uncle, “it appears that your vase was the replica and that Caleb and Abbie’s was the original.”
Frank says nothing.
Uncle steps to the right, bends down and picks a shard off the floor. It’s a large, crescent-shaped piece of Frank’s replica. He touches its jagged edge with his middle finger and smiles.
“Have you had trouble with your hearing lately, Frank?” he asks.
“No, Uncle,” says Frank, his voice shaking slightly.
“That’s odd,” says Uncle, “because I distinctly recall telling you that I do not want you interfering with Caleb and Abbie’s snatches.”
Uncle presses the shard’s sharp edge against his own palm. For an instant, I think he’s going to draw blood, but he pulls the shard back at the last second.
Frank stays silent, his eyes riveted to Uncle’s little hand play.
“But since you assure me that your hearing is sound, I must conclude that perhaps you were distracted when I told you this. That perhaps you were only listening with one ear. Do you think that is possible?”
Frank nods. My heart is pounding. Uncle is going somewhere with all of this.
“I’m glad you agree,” says Uncle. “That is what I thought too.”
Quick as a flash, Uncle bridges the distance between him and Frank. Reaching out with the speed of a viper, he grabs Frank by the hair and swings the shard in a fast, downward motion, slicing off the top part of Frank’s right ear.
“My ear!” Frank cries in pain and disbelief, bringing a hand up to the side of his head.
“Why are you acting so surprised?” says Uncle. “By your own admission, you have only been using one of your ears. It’s clear that you had no use for the other one.”
I’m too stunned to move or to say anything.
“Nassim, please escort Frank from my office,” says Uncle. “And do take care. I would prefer that he not bleed on the carpet.”
“Yes, boss.”
Frank, clutching his ravaged ear and sobbing, allows Nassim to lead him away.
I place my elbows on my knees to stop my legs from shaking. But it’s no use.
Uncle picks some fluff off his hanfu, looks at Abbie and me and smiles as if nothing has happened. Then he says, “The two of you have performed admirably. As your reward for bringing me the Xuande vase, I will allow you to pick your next assignment from among the upcoming missions.”
Reward? I can’t believe it. He’s going to let us go.
“Th-thank you, Uncle,” Abbie stammers. I hope he’s not expecting me to say something, because I don’t think I can manage it right now.
“No, Abbie. It is I who must thank you and Caleb. Nassim will handle the mission selection process with you. Please allow him a few minutes to finish attending to Frank.”
We nod and turn to go. I’m about to follow Abbie out the door when Uncle calls me back in.
Oh, no. This is it. I knew it. Here comes my punishment.
“Yes, Uncle?”
“Did you know, Caleb, that in his Analects, Confucius said something that you would do well to bear in mind?”
“What is that, Uncle?”
“He said, ‘If a man takes no thought about what is distant, he will find sorrow near at hand.’”
“I see. Thank you, Uncle,” I say.
“You are most welcome, Caleb. Again, my congratulations on a snatch well done.”
I nod and quickly leave his office.
I catch up to Abbie by the stairwell.
“What did he say?” she asks.
“He said I’d better spend some time thinking about my future. Or bad things are going to happen to me.”
“Why would he say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “To scare me maybe? Intimidate me? Or threaten me? Take your pick.”
Abbie is quiet for a moment. “Let’s try to forget about all this,” she says, finally, “and focus on something pleasant. I found out what our mission choices are. Do you want to hear them?”
“Sure,” I say. But it’s not going to be easy to forget what just went on in Uncle’s office.
“We’ve got two,” she says. “The first is Bridgeport, Connecticut, on October 14, 1871 to snatch the first Frisbee that was ever flown. The other mission is to snatch silver coins from a Viking hoard near the village of Harrogate, England, on November 27, 954. Personally, I prefer Bridgeport. The weather in the northeast of England in November can be so unpredictable. Besides, I already know what I want to wear to Connecticut, and I’ve got the perfect name for the mission.”
“Which is?”
“An ankle-length plum-colored dress with a bustle and some lace and frills on the—”
“I meant the mission name,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “Operation Fling.”
I have to admit, it’s a pretty good name. “Fine. Bridgeport it is.”
“Great. I’ll go and let Nassim know,” she says.
“Thanks.”
I expect Abbie to go off in search of Nassim, but she just stands there, shifting her weight from foot to foot and finger-brushing a loose strand of hair—signs that there’s something on her mind.
“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” I ask.
“Well … I know I didn’t say too much during our meeting with Uncle …,” she begins.
“You were kind of quiet,” I agree.
“Frank is going to be very angry, Cale. I just didn’t want to make things worse by saying something that would make him even angrier at us.”
“Angrier at me, you mean,” I say. “For some reason, he doesn’t seem to hold things against you.”
The words are out of my mouth before I even know it. And there was a bit of a snarl in my voice that I’m not especially proud of. But why shouldn’t I be upset? It seems like Abbie is saying that if she had to choose, she’d prefer making me angry over making Frank angry.
“Look, let’s forget I said anything and just start getting ready for Bridgeport,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. But I’m not really okay. The meeting with Uncle has left me feeling totally drained, and I don’t have the energy right now to try to figure out whether or not I’m right to be upset with Abbie.
Without a word, she turns and goes off in search of Nassim. But even after she leaves, I can still feel the tension in the air.
October 14, 1871, 11:17 A.M.
Bridgeport, Connecticut
Operation Fling
I land on a roof. If this is someone’s idea of a joke, I’m not finding it very funny. I know mission landings are purposely programmed not to attract attention, but this is a bit much. I’ve got half a mind to complain to management.
But since I’ve already had more than my share of interactions with management lately, I’ll let this little incident go by.
It feels good to be away from Headquarters and the suffocating atmosphere of Uncle’s office. My thoughts go back to his parting words about sorrow being “near at hand.” Abbie said not to think about it. To think about something pleasant instead.
Okay. So how
’s this: it’s a good fifteen-foot drop to the hard ground, and I’m betting there aren’t any pillows lying around to break my fall.
As soon as the time freeze wears off, I slither backward on my belly until my legs dangle over the edge. A stone gargoyle crouches nearby. From the expression on its face, I’d say it’s hoping for an unhappy result. Without giving myself a chance to back out, I let go and fall the rest of the way.
I hit the ground rolling, which turns out to be a good thing, because when I finally stop and sit up I hardly feel sore at all. The first thing I notice is the wood-frame buildings. Nice and solid-looking. They line a street that is not much more than a mud track. You’d think that a mud street wouldn’t have a lot of foot traffic, but all sorts of people are out and about in Bridgeport today: men in smart-looking jackets and bowler hats, ladies in long, frilly dresses and little boys and girls dressed not much differently than the adults.
I spot Abbie lounging outside a storefront under a sign that says MALLEK & SONS, BLACKSMITHS.
“Good morning, Master Caleb. It is always delightful to see you, even though I can’t say the same for how you are dressed.”
She stretches the words so that they sound vaguely foreign. Abbie seems to be in a good mood. I’m glad. I don’t like it when there’s tension between us.
Still, there’s no way I’m taking responsibility for the mud-brown, pleated jacket, stiff shirt and dark green pants I’m wearing. After all, except for socks and underwear, I don’t have any choice in my mission clothing, and she knows it. Besides, Abbie shouldn’t complain—my outfit is hurting me way more than it’s hurting her. The one thing that’s not too tight is the bowler hat.
She, on the other hand, looks comfortable in a purply-blue dress that sticks out at the back and is tied in front with a large red bow. Her long auburn hair is partly hidden by a white bonnet tied with a pink ribbon under her chin, and she’s holding a small yellow umbrella that looks a lot like the one she lifted from the shop in London. I actually have to stop myself from staring. She looks … well, beautiful.
“Great day for a snatch,” I say to cover up my awkwardness.
Time Snatchers Page 15
