by Shay Roberts
I board the charter plane, eyes on the gate. At any moment, I expect them to burst out of the airport and drag me away.
I don't breathe again until I'm in the air.
Twenty-eight hours later, I arrive at Miami International with a serious case of jet lag.
I down an energy drink as I go to long-term parking to fetch Bluedini, my powder-blue 2011 Camaro. It feels weird to be behind the wheel again after almost a week without driving, but it's a good weird.
I'm worried about Lord Beasley. He isn't answering my calls and texts. So instead of driving home first, I pass Coconut Creek and continue on to Highland Beach.
As soon as I pull up to Beasley's mansion, I see police tape across the front door. I circle the mansion on foot and run into the gardener, who appears to be looting equipment from the storage shed. He tells me that Beasley's been murdered, and the police have no idea who did it.
I feel sick to my stomach. Lord Beasley's been a great boss and patron. I can't believe he's dead. He was always so charming and polite. It's hard to believe anyone would want to kill him. And he wouldn't be easy to kill, especially here at home. He had a guard dog and a security system. Whoever did this had some serious skills.
I flash back to the bald guy at the Arba Minch airport, the one who was showing my picture around. I'll bet anything that he and his team killed Beasley, and now they're looking for me. How long before they realize I'm back in the States?
Who are these guys, and what do they want? Maybe they're after Beasley's relic stash.
I wonder if they're a threat to Ayana and the other cultists. If so, I have no way of warning them. And why should I, after what they did to me?
I've got to lie low for a while and figure this thing out.
The first thing I do is get on the phone and buy a plane ticket to Mexico. I won't be using it, of course, it's just a way to throw them off my trail.
Next, I go to the bank and pull out all of my money in cash. From here on out, all my spending will be off the grid.
It's too dangerous to go to my apartment, so I find a dumpy little motel not far from the mailbox rental store where I sent the amulet. The motel wants ID, but they let it slide when I tell them I don't have any. After all, this is a place with hourly rates.
By now, I'm feeling really sick. This is more than jet lag. I think I caught a flu bug on the plane. Probably from all the stress. Wait, oh God, what if it's the fly bite? What if I have sleeping sickness?
When I wake up, I'm still fully clothed, and it's the afternoon of the next day. I don't even remember falling asleep.
I'm in a haze, and my muscles are cramping. I should probably see a doctor, but I need to pick up the amulet. It's too risky to leave it at the mailbox place.
I don't trust myself to drive, so I walk over to the postal store to pick up the package. I have a special arrangement with the owner and he never asks me for ID.
I take the package back to the motel. For a moment, I can't remember what room I'm in.
When I finally get inside, I'm almost too weak to open the package. I definitely need to see a doctor.
I'm happy to find the amulet undamaged. I hang it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt.
I feel light-headed and sit down on the bed. Sweat drips into my eye, and I realize I have a fever. Mom used to make this great chicken soup from bone broth whenever I got sick. I could use a bowl of that now.
I'm struck with a horrible thought. Those military guys may not be able to find me, but they sure as hell can find my mother! If they're willing to kill Lord Beasley, then mothers are probably not off the table. Adrenaline hits me and I feel a wave of panic.
The piggy bank dream plays through my head. I see my mom crying, and pleading with the marshals. I have to protect her.
Suddenly, I'm reliving that moment in startling clarity. Only this time, I'm not the little boy with the broken piggy bank. I'm a grown man, watching the little boy.
The poor kid's hands are shaking as he harvests coins from the broken glass. He keeps cutting himself but doesn't seem to notice. I can't stand to watch it anymore.
I hurry over and pick him up. "Careful, that glass is sharp."
He kicks me in the balls and I drop him. He screams as he falls onto the broken glass.
I bend over from the pain, gasping for breath, my eyes watering.
The little boy, my younger self, runs to find his mother. I see spots of blood on the back of his shirt where the glass cut him.
I've never seen that before. That isn't part of my recurring dream.
Am I dreaming right now? I try to wake myself up to escape the pain in my groin, but I can't. That's scary, because I can always wake myself up when I need to.
Mom comes around the corner, carrying little me in one arm while trying to fish her car keys out of her purse. She looks so young!
Mom isn't crying anymore. She looks frightened, worried about her hurt child. When she sees me, she stops in her tracks and her jaw drops.
Younger me has his face buried against Mom's shoulder, bawling his head off. He isn't even aware of me.
Mom speaks, her voice rough from crying. "You look a lot like my husband."
I want to tell her who I am, but something stops me. Instead, I take the amulet from around my neck and drop it in her purse. "I think this is worth something. Use it to find a place to live and take care of your boy."
"Who are you? Are you Bill's brother? I always thought he had a brother."
I nod and walk away. Best to let her think I'm her brother-in-law. If she knew who I really was, she'd have a freak-out.
I walk the streets of Pueblo and find an empty playground where I used to play. I feel weak and exhausted. I sit down on the merry-go-round and wait for the dream to end.
I wake up with water sprinkling my face. I look up and see cloudy skies above. I'm outside, and it's raining.
I sit up and find myself on the edge of the merry-go-round. Shit, the dream still isn't over!
This is torture. I want to wake up back in my motel room.
I pinch myself. It hurts, but I still don't wake up.
The only good thing about this dream is that I've stopped feeling so sick.
I get to my feet for a look around. The neighborhood is just as I remember it, twenty years ago.
I walk down the street, passing a few parked cars. Some of them are so old they still have cassette decks in the dash.
I pass a phone booth on the corner and look down the street at the theater. They're playing Titanic.
I see a group of older kids on bikes, headed my way. Weird that I think of them as older, they couldn't be more than ten.
I recognize one of them and wave. "Hey, Randy."
When I was little, Randy was twice my age, and always watching out for me.
He hits the brakes, stopping just short of me, and stares slack-jawed at my face. He whispers, "Oh shit," then he and the other boys turn around and pedal off like they're being chased.
What scared him? Something about my face?
I walk over to a parked car and glance into its side mirror.
My eyes look like they're on fire!
In a moment of sudden clarity, I realize that none of this is a dream. Ayana warned me that if I didn't stay calm, I might accidentally time travel or turn into a dragon. That must be what's happening.
I find my sunglasses in my shirt pocket and quickly put them on.
My hands are shaking. I've never been this scared in my life, not even when I was running from the hyenas or looking down the barrel of an AK-47.
How in the hell do I get back to my own time? In my mind's eye, I picture my hotel room and try to go there. Of course, nothing happens. I have no idea how to time travel. I probably should have met with those mentors Ayana was talking about.
I laugh bitterly as I realize the full extent of my terrible situation. I have all this cash on me, but I can't spend it. The bills look different now than they did twenty years ago. Peo
ple will think it's fake money. And I can't pawn the amulet because I already gave it to Mom. So, I have no way to buy food, and no way to get a motel room.
I'm now a homeless street person with crazy eyes that send kids running.
The world blurs in a fog of tears. Last week, I had my own place with a hot tub and a dedicated margarita blender. Now I have nothing. What am I going to do?
Suffering is a Gift
TYLER BUCK
As I walk aimlessly, trying to form a plan, a Pueblo police car slows down to look me over. Did the kids report me?
Thankfully, I have my sunglasses on. I nod to the officer and the car continues past.
What would the cops think if they saw my eyes? They'd probably accuse me of taking some designer drug. The last thing they'd guess is that I'm turning into a dragon. How much longer do I have before a tail starts sticking out the back of my pants?
I'm really hungry. I wonder what dragons eat. Fair maidens, I'm guessing. How does that work? Do I threaten to burn Pueblo to the ground if they don't provide me with a virgin sacrifice on the summer equinox?
A minivan pulls up to the curb beside me. The driver, a woman in a gray pantsuit, leans over and opens the passenger door.
"Hello, Tyler. Can I give you a ride?"
What the hell? This just gets weirder and weirder. I study the woman. She's in her midthirties, and I'm certain we've never met.
She smiles. "Hop in, I've got fried chicken."
I see a big bucket of KFC in the passenger seat. I take a step closer and the heavenly smell overwhelms me. My knees nearly buckle.
I stop for a moment of contemplation. Am I just a wild animal who can be lured into a stranger's minivan with the promise of food?
The answer is yes. I hop inside, putting the barrel of chicken between my legs. It's not like me to be so reckless, but for some reason, I don't care.
She gives me a disapproving look. "Seat belt."
I snap the belt with one hand while I grab a chicken leg with the other.
The woman speaks as she pulls away from the curb. "My name is Ms. Luvalle. I work for an organization called Specta Aeternal, or SA for short."
I reply between bites. "How do … you know me?"
"There are napkins in the glove compartment."
I nod but don't reach for one. Too busy eating.
"We know you, Tyler, because you've committed a crime."
Oh shit, this is about the amulet I smuggled into the country! I consider jumping out of the van and running, but I'd have to leave the chicken behind.
Ms. Luvalle speaks calmly. "Relax. I'm not here to arrest you."
Wait, they couldn't know about the amulet. This is twenty years ago. So what the hell did I do? My mouth is too full to ask questions.
Ms. Luvalle parks the minivan along the levee. There's a nice view of a three-mile-long mural along the levee wall. It's the world's longest painting. I can see the Corn Maiden, with her elaborate headdress and flowing robe. It was painted with the cremated remains of an artist. I heard they tore it down to resurface the levee, but that won't happen for another ten or twenty years.
Ms. Luvalle takes a stack of napkins from the glove compartment and hands them to me. I take a moment to wipe the chicken grease from my face. "What crime?"
"You jumped back to a time populated by a younger version of yourself. We call that doubling. And when you touched the younger version of yourself, you created a temporal rupture. A minor one, fortunately. We have a crew working on it now."
"So, you're like, the time police?"
"That would be a gross oversimplification."
"Well, I'm sorry I doubled up. I don't even know how I got here."
She reaches over and lifts my sunglasses. I'd stop her but I've got a drumstick in each hand.
She nods as if to confirm a suspicion. "You're a dracoform. Which dragon?"
"What's a dracoform?"
"Someone with dragon blood."
"Then, yeah. I'm a dracoform. Got kidnapped by these loons that worship Aido-Hwedo."
"Well, that certainly explains a lot. Most species of dragons can't time travel. Aido-Hwedo is one of the exceptions. What I don't understand is why the Hwedoists didn't walk you through your transformation."
"I kind of … bailed on them."
"Perhaps that wasn't the best decision."
"Yah think?"
"No need for sarcasm, we're trying to help you."
"Why?"
"Because an untrained temporadus—time traveler—has never accomplished what you've done. You moved not just through time, but also through space. That's impossible without the use of a construct, which I don't have time to explain to you now, so don't ask. Long story short, you built your own construct without instruction. That makes you a bit of a prodigy, and we want you on our team."
"What's your team mascot? I should warn you, I don't like ferrets."
"I would laugh, Mr. Buck, but I'm painfully aware you're using humor to mask your anxiety."
"Are you the shrink for Specter Eternus?"
"Specta Aeternal. And no, I'm just an agent, acting as a recruiter at the moment."
"You had me at fried chicken. Where do I sign?"
"Now see, I can't tell if you're being serious. And in any case, you're not ready to join. You have to finish your Hwedoist training, and then complete your studies at the Collegium Chronos."
"The what?"
"Some people call it the Time Academy. It's a three-year program designed to produce expert temporadi."
I look into the bucket and find only bones. How could I have eaten all the chicken already? This is depressing.
I'm still racked by hunger, but some of what Ms. Luvalle said is starting to sink in. I really should have talked to those mentors Ayana wanted me to see. I have no idea how to be a time-traveling dragon.
"Ms. Luvalle, I need to get back to Ethiopia. Specifically, December first, 540 CE. That's my training date."
"Julian, Gregorian, or Ethiopian?"
"What?"
"Which calendar?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, then, we'll start with Gregorian and work from there. Do you want to go straight into the past, or make a stop in your present first?"
"Straight into the past. In my present, people are trying to kill me."
"That's unsettling. Who?"
I shrug. "No idea. Some military types. They already got my boss, Lord Beasley."
"I'm sorry to hear that. We'll look into it. But before we help you with this Ethiopian trip, may I have your promise to attend the Academy when you've completed your Hwedoist training?"
"On one condition."
"What would that be?"
"I want my mom moved to safety. Not here in the past, but in the present."
She smiles. "Aw, looking after your mom. I just want to pinch your greasy little cheek."
"Keep your hands away, I'm still hungry."
She smiles as she starts up the minivan. "Okay, so here's the plan. I don't have a construct in Ethiopia, so we'll have to take an SA jet out of Boston Logan. We'll stay in this time period to avoid your would-be assassins. Once we reach the proper location in Ethiopia, I'll take you back to December first, 540 CE so you can begin your Hwedoist training. I should be rested up enough for another jump by then."
"That all sounds good, but first, we need more chicken."
On the trip to the airport, Ms. Luvalle gives me a lecture about the dangers of being in the past. It's important that I don't speak to anyone outside of SA for any length of time. I'm not to make friends or have sex with anyone outside of my own time. I'm not to write anything, use anachronistic devices in public, break something, or do anything that could result in a change in the timeline. Above all, I am never to speak of future events, and that includes disasters such as hurricanes and stock market crashes. If I screw up, I could find the world changed when I return to my own present.
Wait, no sex? That seems harsh.
> We make good time getting to Logan. The SA jet is surprisingly low rent. It looks like something from the seventies. There are tears and cigarette burns in the lime-green fabric covering the seats.
Ms. Luvalle sits near the front, her brown hair now braided, wearing khaki safari clothes. For hours, she's been playing some game on an ancient Game Boy with a tiny black-and-white screen. That prehistoric tech would drive me crazy.
I sit in the back with a doctor and a psychologist. During the flight from Boston to Casablanca, the doctor gives me a thorough medical exam and the psychologist asks me a thousand seemingly random questions. My favorite question so far is: Do you note the color of your stools? I'm picturing myself lowering a paint swatch card into the toilet.
The doctor notes that my temperature is 101, but he doesn't seem concerned. Apparently, that's normal for a dracoform.
The flight to Casablanca takes about six hours, and I sleep through the second half of it. While we're refueling there, I exit the plane to stretch my legs. I'm not allowed to leave the tarmac and enter the airport.
Ms. Luvalle's bodyguard, a stocky man with a gray suit and a buzz cut, keeps a close eye on me. We picked him up in Boston. Just to mess with him, I step out of sight behind a luggage rack when he isn't looking. He looks so upset when he finds me that I actually feel sorry for him. But he never speaks a word.
In no time, we're back in the air.
Africa is huge. We're already in Africa, but it's still another six hours of flying to reach Arba Minch. That's greater than the distance between New York and Los Angeles. If we were flying to South Africa, it would be an eight-hour flight.
The food on Specta Air sucks. All they have is stuff in packages. Peanuts, cheese sticks, and gummy bears. Still, I eat it. Lots of it. The doctor tells me that hunger is a normal part of my transition. I'm cool with it as long as I don't end up gaining weight. Relic hunters need to maintain their svelte physiques so they can slip out of tight spots.
That thought depresses me. Am I still a relic hunter? My employer is dead, and I seem to be transforming into a dragon. Not only that, but I've committed myself to years of schooling. What will I be when I emerge from all this? Probably not a relic hunter.
