Time Snatchers

by Richard Ungar

  Uncle says it like it’s a question, but it’s not. I grind my teeth. It’s bad enough that he’s snatching orphans. But ripping children out of families? It’s just wrong.

  As Uncle speaks, I hear a cry and spot a trainer and new recruit off to one side. The boy is reaching for something on the floor: a gleaming metal object. As he does, the trainer slaps his hand and picks the object up. It’s a harmonica. But I don’t get to hear it played, because in the next instant the trainer pockets it.

  “This facility,” continues Uncle, “can comfortably house eighty recruits, although with some creativity we should be able to squeeze in another twenty. Just think of it: a hundred time snatchers! It seems a boggling number doesn’t it? That’s progress, my friends. Soon enough these new recruits will be trained and ready to join you, skipping across the centuries and liberating precious items from the past for the enjoyment of our clients.”

  Uncle sure has a way with words. He’s the only one I know who can make stealing sound like a public service.

  “Phase Two,” he says, “will concern what I call ‘Guided Snatches.’ From time to time, clients have questioned the authenticity of the object that we have procured for them. To address this concern, I will invite certain select customers to accompany our snatch teams on missions so that they can see the snatch firsthand. What greater proof of authenticity can there be?”

  I can’t believe it. No way. Snatches are tough enough without the added complication of being responsible for a time-traveling tourist.

  “To be the best,” Uncle continues, adjusting his sash, “we must not be afraid of having big ideas and turning them into reality. We need only to look to history for examples. While I was in the Far East recently, I took a side trip to see the Great Wall of China. What an enormous undertaking! Imagine a wall stretching more than five thousand miles across valleys, mountains and plains. Almost impossible to contemplate, isn’t it? And do you know how it came to be?”

  He pauses and I pray he doesn’t pick me to answer. Chinese history isn’t my strong suit.

  “I will tell you,” he continues, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “The Great Wall of China started out as the dream of one man, the first emperor of China, Qín Sh Huáng. That is how great things begin, my friends, with a simple idea. But of course, just as Qín Sh Huáng had help to make his dream a reality, I too have selected one from among your ranks to help me realize my dream.”

  Uncle’s eyes flick to Frank. No. Please don’t say it.

  “That person is … Frank,” says Uncle.

  My legs go all wobbly. I need to sit down.

  I glance at Abbie. She’s beaming at Frank as if she can’t wait to get over there and give him a big hug.

  “Frank will coordinate Phase One of Project Metamorphosis: collections from places and times in history where there have been large gatherings of children. Each of you will now report to Frank,” says Uncle, “and he will report directly to me. Are there any questions?”

  Not from me there aren’t. Now that Frank is my boss, I’m doing something I never thought possible—longing for the old days when I took my orders from Uncle.

  Silently, I pray that Uncle doesn’t have any more news and will call the meeting to an end. But up shoots good ol’ Lydia’s right hand. A smile spreads slowly across Uncle’s face.

  “Lydia has a question,” he says. “Fire away.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” she says. “What I’d like to know is how so many children can be collected from across the centuries without affecting the course of history? I mean, isn’t there a risk that, by snatching them away from their families and bringing them here, we’ll be interfering with how the future of the world is supposed to unfold? And if that happens, aren’t we putting all our lives and the very existence of Timeless Treasures at risk?”

  Lydia has a smug smile on her face. I bet Uncle mindlinked her the question to ask. There’s no way she could have thought that one up on her own.

  “An excellent question, Lydia. Permit me to respond by way of example. Frank, can you kindly bring in the boy?”

  Frank disappears and a second later he’s back, towing a ragged-looking boy by the hand.

  My heart skips a beat. But it’s not Zach.

  Uncle crouches down so that he’s eye level with the boy. “Cómo te llamas?” he asks gently.

  “Eduardo,” says the boy, not quite looking in his eyes.

  “Eduardo was collected in nineteenth-century Spain,” says Uncle, turning to look at us. “Prior to collecting him, Phoebe did a full workup of his family tree extending two hundred years forward from the date of collection. There were no indications that Eduardo or any of his descendants would play roles in any significant historical events.

  “Think of history as a river,” he continues. “The Eduardos of the world are but pebbles in the stream. They are too small and insignificant to affect the flow of the current. Even a thousand Eduardos dropped into the river would merely sink to the bottom and not affect the course of the rushing water.”

  Uncle reaches underneath his hanfu, pulls out a chocolate bar and holds it toward the boy, whose small hand twitches but doesn’t move from his side.

  “It’s okay,” says Uncle. “This is for you … esto es para ti.”

  Eduardo reaches out and takes the chocolate bar.

  Frank whispers something in Eduardo’s ear, and the boy steps forward, gives Uncle a quick kiss on the cheek and says, “Gracias, Uncle.”

  “De nada,” says Uncle smiling. He nods and Frank leads Eduardo away.

  “Does that answer your question, Lydia?” says Uncle, rising to his full height.

  “Yes, it does. Thank you, Uncle,” she says.

  “Wonderful. Are there any more questions?” he asks.

  Blessedly, no other hands go up.

  “Very well, then,” says Uncle. “You are all dismissed.”

  People are getting up and heading for the door. I know I should go too, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight of those children. What if one of them is Zach? No, I tell myself. Zach is safe with his parents.

  A meaty hand on my shoulder startles me.

  “Stick around, Caleb,” says Nassim. “The boss wants a word with you after he finishes speaking with Abbie. I’ll let you know when it’s your turn.” Then he exits the room.

  Abbie? What does he want with her? And why hasn’t he asked to see us together?

  I sit down on the bench in the Viewing Room and wait. After what seems like forever, Nassim returns, and I follow him down a long hallway. Abbie is approaching from the other direction. She looks pale and gives me a thin smile when she sees me.

  “Was it bad?” I mindlink her as we pass each other.

  “I was lucky,” she mindlinks back. “Only a warning. Good luck.”

  Nassim motions to a door on the right side of the hallway.

  I knock and open the door. The room is plainly furnished with a wood desk, a couple of straight-back chairs and a wall screen. As I enter, the screen lights up, and Phoebe’s middle-aged woman persona appears, dressed in a jogging suit that’s two sizes too small, pedaling a stationary bicycle and flossing her teeth. Uncle, seated behind the desk, gestures for me to take a seat in one of the visitors’ chairs. With his crisp pinstriped hanfu, he looks out of place in the drab office. On the desk blotter in front of him is a yellowed piece of paper with edges that curl in different directions. It looks like an old newspaper clipping.

  He holds it so that I can only see the headline: BOY VANISHES INTO THIN AIR.

  “Are you familiar with Rule Number Three, Caleb?” The vein in Uncle’s forehead dances wildly.

  “I … uhh … yes, Uncle,” I say.

  “Recite it for me, please.”

  I clear my throat. “Rule Number Three: In the course of performing a mission, no field agent shall bring any undue attention upon himself or Timeless Treasures.”

  “Well done,” he says. “A wonderful recitation of Rule Number Thr
ee. Wouldn’t you agree, Phoebe?”

  “Indubitably, Uncle,” replies Phoebe with a smirk in her voice.

  “Now,” continues Uncle, “would you agree with me that a sensational news story could bring unwanted attention upon our organization?”

  My throat is dry. But somehow I manage to squeak out, “Yes, Uncle.”

  He smiles and lifts his hand, revealing a photograph beneath the headline.

  I gasp. It’s a picture of me at Expo 67, standing in front of the broken display case for the Xuande vase. My body is translucent. Then I remember Sidney Halpern and his Rolleiflex camera. He must have taken the shot just as I was timeleaping. But how did Uncle get ahold of it?

  Frank! It had to be.

  “You have deeply disappointed me, Caleb,” says Uncle. “Did you know that I was within a hairsbreadth of appointing you over Frank as director of the Project Metamorphosis?”

  “No, Uncle, I didn’t,” I say, my legs trembling now.

  Uncle doesn’t respond immediately. He draws his sword from his belt and lays it on the table between us, pointy end facing me.

  “Were you aware,” he says, “that even in this modern day and age, there are certain countries in the world that still punish thieves by cutting off their hands?”

  “I wasn’t aware of that, Uncle,” I say, eyes glued to the tip of his sword. My mouth has gone completely dry.

  “There is a certain symmetry to that, wouldn’t you agree?” says Uncle. “Punishing a thief by cutting off the very limbs he used to commit the theft?”

  I nod. The direction of this conversation is scaring me. “But Uncle, I snatched the Xuande vase for you! The mission was a success!” I don’t like the sound of my voice. It sounds desperate and frightened.

  “You are absolutely correct,” he says. “The mission was a smashing success, pardon the pun. And you were duly rewarded for it, don’t you remember?”

  I say nothing.

  “The point is, Caleb, that you broke Rule Number Three. And not in a small way, either.”

  Then he softens his tone. “Now, I really shouldn’t, should I? After all, stealing is your job. If I cut off your hands or even your fingers, I would really only be hurting myself.”

  My eyes follow Uncle’s right index finger as it hovers for a moment over the tip of the sword and then presses down on it, drawing blood.

  “Take off your left shoe and sock,” he says.

  Tears start to gather in my eyes. I have a sudden urge to bolt, but I know it’s useless. Nassim is stationed right outside the door.

  I bend down and slowly remove my shoe. Then I take my sock off and there it is—my naked left foot. Until this moment I don’t think I truly appreciated what a marvel my foot is and how precious it is to me.

  “Foot on the top of the desk, please,” says Uncle.

  I lift it up and onto the desk. My whole body is shaking badly.

  “Did you know that nursery rhymes are not only told in the West? The Chinese have them too.” As he says this, he raises the sword and slices the air above my naked foot.

  “Yes, Uncle,” I say, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

  He brings the tip of the blade to within an inch of my big toe and says, “But to be honest, I prefer the nursery rhymes of the West. Perhaps we all enjoy the familiarity of things we grew up with. Isn’t that true?”

  I grit my teeth.

  “And the one I’m about to recite is a particular favorite,” he continues.

  I try to yank my foot off the table, but Uncle grips my ankle roughly and keeps it there.

  “This little piggy went to market,” he begins.

  The blade shifts a smidgeon and hovers over my second toe.

  “And this little piggy stayed home.” His voice is steady and cold.

  Sweat rolls off my forehead. Whimpers come from my throat.

  “This little piggy had roast beef,” he continues, moving to my third toe. “And this little piggy had none.” Uncle lowers the blade until it tickles the skin of my fourth toe.

  “Please don’t. Please don’t. It won’t happen again. I promise,” I cry.

  “And this little piggy cried, ‘Wee, wee, wee’ …”

  “No, Uncle!” I plead.

  “All the way HOME!”

  A beam of bright blue light flashes from the tip of the blade, zapping my smallest toe. Searing white pain explodes in my foot. A burning smell fills the air. My toe. My poor toe.

  Just before I pass out, I hear Uncle say, “The number nine, Caleb, is perhaps the most important number to the Chinese. Nine is the dragon. Nine is the number of palace gates at the center of the Forbidden City. Nine is the number of slabs in the circular altar of the Temple of Heaven. And now”—he pauses—“nine is the number of your toes.”

  June 25, 2061, 3:24 P.M.

  Timeless Treasures Headquarters

  Tribeca, New Beijing (formerly New York City)

  I wake up in my bed at Headquarters. How did I get here? It must have been Nassim. The last thing I remember is Uncle reciting a nursery rhyme. A shooting pain in my foot reminds me of the rest.

  I throw off my blankets and sit up. There’s a large white bandage where my little toe used to be. A glass of water and pill bottle sit on my bedside table. I wash down two of the pills, then swing my feet over the bed and stand up. Surprisingly, the pain isn’t too bad. I take a couple of wobbly steps forward and almost lose my balance before correcting myself.

  A million thoughts race through my head. Project Metamorphosis. That Spanish kid, Eduardo. Frank at Expo 67. And Zach. I’ve got to get out of here and go someplace where I can think about everything and figure out what to do.

  I shake another two pills from the bottle and put them in my pocket. Then, on impulse, I take the whole bottle. Next, I grab my carving and knife, shove them in my other pocket, and carefully put on my sock and shoe over the bandage. Ready to go.

  The hall is empty. Everyone must be out on missions. I trudge to the elevator.

  “Well, if it isn’t Caleb the See-Through Time Snatcher. That was quite a photo of you,” says Phoebe.

  “Yes, it was,” I agree.

  “Where are you going?” Phoebe asks. Her persona is dressed in a crisp white nurse’s uniform, and she’s holding a pen and clipboard.

  “For a walk,” I say.

  “That sounds mysterious,” she says, jotting something on the clipboard.

  “Yes, it does,” I say, not taking the bait. The less Phoebe knows the better.

  “Okay,” says Phoebe, “have it your way. But don’t expect to make many friends if all your sentences are less than four words.”

  “I won’t.”

  The elevator ride is blessedly quiet. I get off at the lobby and head toward the subway.

  I feel some pain in my foot, but it’s manageable. Balance is a bit of an issue until I realize that if I shift more of my weight onto my right foot, it’s easier to walk.

  As I board the uptown number one train, Uncle’s chilling words come back to me. “Nine is the dragon … and now nine is the number of your toes.”

  Luckily my car isn’t crowded, so I have no problem finding a seat. I close my eyes, figuring on a good fifteen minutes before my stop. The pills I took are kicking in now, easing the pain in my foot.

  “Want to buy some Girl Scout fortune cookies, mister?” says a voice.

  It’s “mister” that gets my attention. No one’s ever misterred me before, that is, in a serious way. I open my eyes and see a smiling, red-haired girl wearing a green uniform and beret. There’s a gap as wide as Fifth Avenue between her two front teeth. I peg her at about nine years old, which accounts for the mister. Her name badge says MOLLY, and she’s not alone. Two identically dressed but glum companions stand slightly behind and to each side of her. Each of them has her hands wrapped around four or five red boxes.

  For a second, I’m tempted to do what any decent New Yorker would do, and that is ignore her completely. But something, maybe he
r smile, makes me look up and say, “Girl Scout fortune cookies? When did that happen?”

  “It’s new this year. On account of the Great Friendship,” Molly says.

  I should have guessed. “How much for one?”

  “Ten dollars a box,” she says, without batting an eyelash.

  “No, I mean how much for one fortune cookie?” I say.

  “We don’t sell singles,” she says, her smile fading fast. “You gotta buy the whole box. But it’s a good deal. And you can share with your friends.”

  I wonder if I should try for a no-friends discount. But Molly looks like she’s getting restless. I dig my fingers into my pocket and fish out the silver half-dollar coin left over from Bridgeport.

  “This doesn’t look like ten bucks, mister,” she says when I hand her the coin.

  “Yeah, but look at the date,” I say. “1871. Do you know how much that coin is worth now?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Probably over fifty bucks,” I say, although I really have no idea. Molly is smiling again. Even the Sisters Glum look slightly happier.

  “Mint or regular?” she asks.

  “Mint, please,” I say.

  “Thanks for supporting the Girl Scouts,” she says, handing me a red box.

  With that, she spins and bounces off toward her next mark, the Sisters Glum following close on her heels.

  I get off at Columbus Circle and cross the line of waiting rickshaw taxis, pausing for a moment at the base of the Maine Monument. Looking up, I see the familiar bronze sculpture of a lady standing in a seashell chariot pulled by three seahorses. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes I imagine her and her chariot breaking free of the top of the monument and flying through the sky over Manhattan.

  As I enter Central Park, a jogger and dog duo pass me with their tongues hanging out. The smell of hot dogs and mustard wafts over from a nearby cart.

  It’s only a short walk to my favorite spot. I like being in the park. It calms me. I can think here.

  I’m in luck. My regular bench is free. I sit down, stretch my legs and gaze ahead at what I consider to be the best thing to come out of the Great Friendship: the Xuxu Monastery and Garden. The scoop on the monastery is that the Chinese paid to move it and about a hundred Buddhist monks all the way from a hilltop right outside Shanghai. They even built a Chinese garden, complete with lotus pond, stone bridge, cool-looking rocks and different kinds of flowers and trees.