The Mammoth Book of Time Travel SF

by Mike Ashley

  Her husband was next to her, dressed for the occasion. He had slicked his hair back with leftover cooking fat, and he was wearing his only suit, the one he wore on their wedding day. The hem was ragged, and two of the buttons on his three-button coat bent at odd angles. He muttered and took a draw from his flask. They had stopped at Dick’s that afternoon to fill it up. She could smell the heavy scotch on his breath. His walk was stuttering and uneven, so bad that Irene had to push the buggy they had brought for their son half of the way.

  They both stepped near the edge of the grave. Her son’s coffin was at the bottom, and while the laborers had cleaned and polished the surface of the lid, a light dusting of red dirt had settled on it overnight. The casket itself was a plain wood, stained a dark brown. To Irene, it looked too small.

  “When are they coming?” Her husband asked, uncomfortable.

  “Soon. Any minute,” she replied, adjusting her hat. Her dress was a simple black. She could not remember, but imagined she wore it during her son’s funeral. The thought lashed at Irene, but she pushed it down. It’ll be over soon. My baby is coming home.

  She kept her eyes on the casket, until the Reverend and the laborers arrived, and relaxed a little. Patience, she reminded herself.

  The Reverend was the youngest of them. He was a little boy, with rosy cheeks and sandy hair, his priest’s collar loose on his thin neck. Irene didn’t know how much longer he had, but guessed it was less than a decade. He was one of the few children that had not retired, and Irene admired him for it.

  “Irene, Delbert.” The Reverend spoke with a child’s falsetto and offered up a hand to her husband. “We’ve been waiting for this one.” Behind him, the workers filed past. The men were familiar, and Irene imagined that they had been the ones who helped uncover her son tomorrow.

  Irene didn’t answer the Reverend, but instead turned her attention back to the coffin. Two of the workers jumped down into the hole. They worked a little space for themselves, bent down and lifted the coffin up with ease.

  The casket crested the grave’s edge, where the remaining two laborers picked it up and moved it to the side, setting it down next to the large pile of dirt they had dug. Irene had tensed when they brought the coffin up, worrying that the men might jostle her son. Most times, people left the casket in the ground to prevent such problems, but her son’s casket was so small that lifting it out would make his recovery easier.

  “How much time do we have?” The Reverend asked.

  “A few minutes.” Irene replied.

  “Best hurry, then.” The Reverend smiled. Irene’s stomach gurgled. A few more minutes and her son’s wait would be over. Her wait would be over. The pain in her arms intensified. She could feel it in the tips of her fingers.

  The Reverend opened his bible. Behind him, the laborers removed their denim caps and stuffed them into empty pockets. Irene moved closer to her husband and clutched his arm. Her knees felt weak and her nose was growing numb.

  “You okay?” her husband asked. “You’re breathing hard.”

  “I’m fine.” She tightened her grip. The skin of her arms felt as though it were on fire. Was this what my son felt? She hissed at the pain in her arms and closed her eyes. She had forgotten how much it hurt. It would be worse for her son, she realized. The scalding water had covered his entire body.

  The Reverend began his prayer, and Irene could not focus on his words. Her breath came in short, rapid spurts. She would catch snippets, “Blessed us with his soul . . . new life . . . in resurrection . . . happy moments to cherish . . . serve out your plan . . . repentance for sins . . .” The words held little meaning for her. She tried focusing her mind, but her eyes kept wandering to the casket.

  The Reverend clasped his Bible shut when he finished. “The Lord gives his blessing.” He smiled at Irene.

  Irene nodded and turned her attention to the setting sun on the Eastern horizon. Soon her son would be back. The workers moved to the large pile of dirt, and began to shovel it back into the empty grave. The Reverend stepped up to the coffin and flashed the sign of the cross in blessing, then moved away to make room for Irene and her husband.

  She blinked and her vision blurred with tears. Everything was quiet, save her husband’s steady breathing and the scrape of shovels against the ground. Her husband placed an arm over her shoulder and gripped her tight.

  THUMP.

  The sound came from the coffin, shaking loose some of the dirt.

  THUMP.

  THUMP.

  THUMP.

  Irene shuttered each time, her heart skipping a beat.

  “Momma!” A muffled voice coughed through the thick wood. It was hoarse, edged with pain. “Momma! I hurt!”

  Irene screamed and fell before her husband could catch her. Her knees sank into the dry grass as she wailed, placing her head in both bandaged hands as fire burned up her arms. She had forgotten how bad the pain was, the burning so hot that it washed her vision white. She knew it would hurt, but thought her joy would push it down, make it smaller.

  But the pain cut both ways, she realized, as her son’s scream echoed hers. What kind of mother am I?

  “MOMMA!” Her little boy wailed again.

  “Irene.” Her husband was crouched next to her, his voice was thick. He stuck an arm underneath her to help her to her feet.

  She looked at him, and saw the worry in the lines of his face. He remembers. Is three years worth it?

  Irene shook the thought from her head; she had made her decision. Her son needed her now, more than ever. She let her husband guide her to the edge of his coffin as she gasped between sobs. The casket rocked back and forth on the ground, sending particles of red dirt shimmering through the air. The wind picked them up and pushed them out of sight.

  “MOMMA!”

  She fell to her knees again, this time at the center of the casket. Her husband knelt beside her to work at the coffin’s latch. With heavy, fumbling hands he sprung the lock and lifted the lid.

  Her son’s face was still bright with the undertaker’s makeup. He was in a simple black suit, with bare feet. His hands were bright red. He writhed on the ivory lining, his torso twisting back and forth like a rag wrung of all its water.

  “MOMMA!” His voice hit her unblocked and she nearly fell on her hands.

  “He will heal.” The Reverend spoke up behind them. “The pain will go.” His voice was calm, soothing, confident.

  Irene shut her eyes, wishing the pain would come to a quick end. She leaned into the casket, moving her hands slowly. She reached for her son’s hand and gripped onto it. She gasped when she felt her son grip back, feeling the bones protruding from his sharp knuckles and the tension wrought by his thin fingers. The skin of his hands was raw and angry, and he gripped hers with a force that made her cry out through the pain.

  “Momma!” The boy cried again, weaker. His eyes were clenched shut. His head and his feet were the only parts that the water had not touched.

  “Shhh, baby. Momma’s right here.” His writhing slowed, his limbs slackened and his breathing evened. Irene reached out and straightened his hair, pushing a few stray hairs on his forehead up and over his ear with a bandaged finger.

  “Your father’s here too,” her husband croaked, fumbling the words. He leaned next to her, his knuckles bright white against the coffin’s dark wood.

  Her son’s eyes flashed open, searching wild. His body writhed again, until his eyes found his father.

  “Why?” her son screamed. His eyes were wide and accusing. His body lost its tension as he passed out from the pain.

  Irene dropped his hand.

  Her husband fell away from the casket, knocking up a cloud of blood red dust.

  “What does he mean?” Irene whispered. Her husband choked out a groan. She stood up from the casket, raised her voice. “What does he mean?!”

  Looming over her husband, her mind tugged at the memory, reliving it in agonizing detail.

  It had been just like every M
onday: She filled the laundry tub, heated it to scalding. It was early, the sun well above the horizon.

  Her husband was in bed, out of work, sleeping off the Okie scotch Dick made in his giant backyard kiln.

  Her son had been in the other room, playing with a new wooden train that his father had bought for him on a recent job scouting trip to Kingfisher. She could still hear the sound, the CLICK-CLACK of wood striking wood.

  CLICK-CLACK went the train. Irene could see him now, pushing it across the worn linoleum of their kitchen floor.

  He played there all the time.

  He knew to stay away from that awful heat.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  Irene closed her eyes, remembered the sounds. She had moved to the den; there had been a knock at the door.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  Then the hiss of water, like bacon thrown on a griddle, followed by her son’s scream. So close together that they played out simultaneously in her head.

  She ran to the kitchen, her husband in the opposite doorway, three steps from their bed. She dove after her son, burning her arms as she pulled him from the water. Her husband was behind her, sober, frozen in indecision, fear. She did not remember hearing him get up.

  “Did you . . . do this?” She cried at the completion of the memory.

  Her husband’s eyes shut tight, he let loose a sob.

  Irene screamed. “You whoreson!” She ran behind the casket and tore a shovel from a laborer’s hands, the pain in her arms forgotten.

  She turned on her husband, the shovel held high. He had not moved. Tears ran tracks through the dirt on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Irene charged him. She swung for his head, but was stopped short as a pair of hard arms wrapped round her waist. She was lifted in the air, carried off beyond the grave, beyond the sight of her husband. She screamed and kicked, dropping the shovel so she could press down on her captor’s forearms.

  “Stop.” The man behind her gasped. She tossed her head to see him. It was one of the diggers, caked in red dirt. He grimaced, flashing bright teeth. “Please. Stop.”

  “. . . kill . . . him,” Irene screamed through labored breath.

  “No.” The Reverend followed them, staying beyond Irene’s kicking legs. His black slacks were stained dirt red and a few wisps of hair were out of place. “No.”

  “I will!”

  “I know.” He held up a hand, and the laborer loosened his grip and set her feet on the ground. His arms still locked around her waist. “What good will come of it?”

  “He killed my son!” Irene drove against the worker’s arms. He stumbled, but did not break.

  “Your son is alive.” The Reverend pointed at the casket. “In time, he will forget. You will forget.”

  “No! I will never forget.” Irene scratched at the worker’s arms. He released her and Irene fell forward, to her knees. Pain shot through her arms as she landed on her wounded hands.

  The Reverend forced a smile and placed his hands on her shoulders. A dimple formed against his young cheek. “That is the promise of resurrection. That is the gift the Lord has given us, why he resurrected us, to wipe the slate clean. All of our sins will be forgiven. Forgotten. As our lives roll back, all the things we have done, will be undone. In a few hours, a day, you will forget. It will be as if it never happened.”

  Irene did not want to forget.

  “I am sorry.” The Reverend’s high voice broke for a moment, and he wiped away tears of his own. “In resurrection all things, all of life’s mysteries, become clear. I will speak to your husband. I think it is best for you to spend this first day away from your son. By yesterday, he will be fine, and this horrible memory will be gone.”

  Irene screamed and lunged to her feet, only to fall flat in the dust as the laborer forced her back down by her shoulders. The remaining three diggers gathered around the casket.

  The Reverend took Irene by her tender hands, and guided her to her feet. Standing, Irene was a head taller than he.

  Her son was still in his casket, his eyes closed. He tossed his head and murmured something against the soft lining of his coffin. Her husband was still on his knees, his head held tight in his thick hands.

  He looked up. “Please,” he begged. “Please?”

  Irene shook her head, bit her lip. The pain cut through her consciousness.

  The Reverend broke the intervening silence. “In our lives we all do things that we regret. Monstrous things. It pays nothing to dwell on them. I want you, Irene, and you, Delbert, to spend the night here, contemplating this.”

  “What about my son?”

  “I will take him. In a few hours, his wounds will heal. He will remember nothing of this tragedy. Neither will you.”

  “I need him,” Irene shook her head. “I don’t want to forget!”

  “Irene. Please.” The Reverend spread his arms. “This is for the best.”

  The Reverend turned to the four laborers and pointed to Irene’s husband. “Bind his hands and feet. He will spend the night here, by his son’s grave.” He looked sideways at Irene. “Lock her in the caretaker’s home.”

  Irene watched as the men lifted her wounded son out of his coffin and into his buggy. He did not stir. Moments later the Reverend pushed her son away, across the uneven field, toward the setting sun.

  “Will you come with me, ma’am?” The worker that held her back asked. “Please?”

  She nodded her head, and watched as her husband’s feet and hands were bound with hemp.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be led away by the digger’s hard, calloused hand. I will not forget, she swore to herself. I will not forget. She repeated the mantra over and over. Your husband did this . . . he took your son away from you.

  Irene waited until dark before breaking out. The caretaker’s house was little more than a shanty, four walls cobbled together by spare pieces of wood, stone and metal. The walls had many soft spots. Irene spent a few minutes working on one, pushing on loose stones, pulling rotted wood, until she formed a space wide enough to squeeze her thin body out of the house, dragging her torso and legs against the ground. The laborers had left long before. The night was silent, dry, without wind.

  Remember! Irene closed her eyes, and forced herself to recall the details of the day.

  The moon cast long shadows against the graves of the cemetery. Irene used the light of the moon and stars to guide her way to her son’s gravesite. Her arms were fully recovered, the skin soft, supple, new, flawless, perfect.

  She felt out of breath, robbed of her joy. She should be celebrating the resurrection of her son, at home, with her husband.

  Today, everything was meant to be fixed. Instead, it was shattered.

  Her son’s grave was filled, with a small indentation and her son’s headstone the only proof it ever existed. Irene saw no sign of her husband.

  Where did he go?

  She began to panic. What if he escaped? What if he tries to hurt my son again?

  He was bound, she reminded herself. Four strong men. You saw it yourself.

  She crouched at the grave, and let her hands linger over the memory of her son still etched in the stone. If she had a hammer, she would destroy it, break it down to dust. She worked the stone with her hands, pressing it until it fell over in a muffled thump.

  Irene stood and ran her eyes around the small graveyard, looking for her husband. She did not know what she would do once she found him. Her mind refused to answer any time she asked. What will you do? she chided herself. Scream at him? Hit him? Kill him?

  “Delbert!” She called into the darkness. “Where are you, you whoreson?!”

  Above her, the old sentinel tree groaned in answer. Irene looked up.

  Remember!

  Her husband’s body swung from the tree, his legs twisting one way in the wind, then another. He had fashioned a rude noose
from the scraps of hemp the diggers had used to bind him. His fingers were raw and bloody. The purple sheen of his face was hard to pick out against the backdrop of the night sky.

  Irene fell to her knees and broke her eyes away from her dead husband, letting her vision fall to the tree’s trunk. Her husband had cut into the wood, worked at the dry, dead bark with his bare hands.

  The words he left behind were simple, covered in blood:

  LOOK AFTER HIM.

  Her husband had not forgotten.

  “I’m sorry,” Irene whispered.

  February 13, 1933

  Irene had dreaded this day. Unlike the future, the past was inevitable.

  She panted through exertion, her body covered in a clammy sheen of sweat. There was little heat in the hospital, and she only had a thin cotton gown to separate her skin from the cold. Goosebumps pebbled her exposed arms and thighs, and her spread legs were high above her body, mounted in stirrups.

  “We’re almost there, Irene.” The doctor smiled from between her legs. He was an older man, with well-styled whiskers and a bald head.

  “You’re doing great,” a nurse echoed, dressed in a white apron and cap. She was standing next to her, holding her hand as she took in large gasps of air.

  She gritted her teeth and balled her fists as the doctor pushed her son deeper. She recalled the pain of childbirth, and knew that it was nothing compared to this. She could feel her son struggling as he went higher into her uterus, with his sharp feet and hard elbows.

  Irene had dreaded this day, but not for the pain.

  She cried out in grief. These three years had been wonderful, an era of brightness where her life held few flaws.

  Yet the anniversary of her son’s birth always hung over Irene, like dark storm clouds on the horizon, a constant reminder that his end was coming. Now her son was on the final path of his life. He would live another nine months, until he became a part of her.