by Tim Champlin
Zane lay still, eyes closed, trying to piece together shattered memory. He recalled sneaking down to the creek to eat the forbidden candy bar. That’s where he’d had the severe reaction and vomited before everything went black. Maybe by regurgitating he’d rid himself of the peanuts and chocolate that poisoned his system. The doctor had said it wasn’t uncommon for severe allergies to cause death.
He was terribly hot. Sweat poured off his face, trickling down his neck. Had he died and his soul been spirited away to Hell or Purgatory? Seized with sudden panic, he sprang to his feet. A wave of dizziness made him stagger. The glare off the white sand stabbed at his eyes. Could a dead person still feel dizzy or nauseated? No, no. The blood had rushed out of his head when he stood up too fast. If his blood was circulating, he had to be alive.
But where was he? Dreaming or in a coma? He didn’t recognize anything around him. He took a few shuffling steps on the soft sandbar toward the nearby dark water. But this wasn’t the creek where he often fished and had become sick. He raised his gaze. Not a creek at all; it was a broad river. The expanse of flowing water extended for at least a half-mile to the far shore.
Where was he, anyway? Along with feeling sick, he was now becoming seriously alarmed. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his glasses, slipped them out of the case, and polished them on his shirttail.
The lenses brought the world into sharper focus. Maybe his blurred vision was contributing to his queasy stomach because as soon as he could see clearly, he began to feel a bit better.
He stood there uncertainly, not knowing what to do next. Then he recalled his cell phone clipped to his belt. He’d call his parents and ask them to come pick him up. But his hand hesitated on the phone. He didn’t see any roads nearby. How could he tell them where he was? He didn’t have a GPS. Oh well, he’d call anyway and tell them he’d passed out and now was lost. It would be good to hear a familiar voice.
The phone was still charged and he punched in his mother’s cell number. If she wasn’t available or didn’t answer, he’d call his dad. One of them could come to his rescue. He’d have to admit to eating that nearly deadly candy bar, but he’d learned his lesson about that. If he wanted to gain weight and put on muscle it would be steak and potatoes and milkshakes from here on.
He held the phone to his ear. There was no sound of ringing on the other end. Dead silence. He ended the attempt, then tried again. Nothing. Then he punched in his father’s number. Same result. He turned the phone off to save the battery.
A spasm of panic clenched his tender stomach. He swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted terrible. Should he risk a drink of river water and possibly make himself even sicker? He slid the cell phone into its case on his belt and knelt by the river’s edge. The water looked clear, but was no doubt swarming with microscopic organisms. He’d only rinse out his mouth. He slurped up a handful, swirled it around his tongue, and spat, then repeated the process. It was warm and tasted like fish and dirt. The new foul taste replaced the old foul taste. He stuck out his tongue and wiped it with his sleeve, but forgot his shirt was covered with sand. Ugh! He pulled out his handkerchief and cleaned the inside of his mouth as best he could of the grit and taste. At least the folded handkerchief was clean. But with all the sweating and loss of his stomach contents, he was dehydrated and very thirsty. If he tried to drink this river water, there was a good chance he’d be sick again.
He had to find a road and flag down a car and ask for help. But, looking around for some shade, he noticed for the first time he was standing on a long sandbar at the upstream end of an island, and the chute between the narrow island and the eastern shore was only about forty yards wide. Was there a bridge to the other side of this river?
Drifting downstream near the far shore was what looked like a flatboat with a man at the long steering oar. There was no sound of a diesel or gasoline engine.
He’d satisfied himself he wasn’t dead, but this had to be a dream. With the coming of spring, he’d re-read both the novels about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, as well as perusing two or three books written by his grandfather who was a Mark Twain scholar. So he had all these adventures of the 1840s fresh on his mind—and now they were replaying themselves, surfacing from his subconscious in a dream. This thought calmed his fears for now. He was sometimes conscious in a dream of the fact that he was dreaming. And that was the case now.
Zane dreamed vividly and often, usually in color. His nocturnal visions were rarely fearful nightmares, but were always adventurous or exciting about things he’d been doing—travel, watching TV or playing video games, sports, and—like now—being lost somewhere and trying to find his way home. When comparing notes with his classmates and friends about this, he discovered they also dreamed. It was a common enough experience, but they denied having as many or as exciting dreams as he did. He attributed it to an active imagination.
What to do next? He walked toward the deep woods, about thirty yards away, to seek relief from the hot sun. Hundred-foot trees and green undergrowth covered what he could see of the island to the south.
It felt at least ten degrees cooler in the shade, and he reveled in the slight breeze—until the mosquitoes began to buzz around his ears and sweaty face.
He was in the act of swatting them when he looked up and saw a rowboat containing three people approaching the sandbar. Good. He could find out where he was and call for help.
Stepping out of the woods, he walked toward the approaching boat.
His stomach had settled down and, except for his thirst, he felt better.
The boy who was rowing paused to look over his shoulder when the black man at the tiller pointed toward shore.
Zane didn’t care who these people were; they represented help and possibly a way home. They must be poor fishermen, he thought, or they’d have an outboard motor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone using oars.
The prow grounded on the sand and the three piled out and pulled the boat up higher.
“Hi!”
“Hullo, yourself,” the slightly shorter boy with light-brown hair greeted him. “Who’re you?”
“Zane Rasmussen.” He offered his hand and they shook.
“I’m Tom Sawyer, and this here’s Huckleberry Finn.”
They gripped hands.
“And this is our friend, Jim.” The black man hesitated, then took the proffered hand.
Tom and Huck and Jim? Who’d they think they were kidding? Maybe they think I haven’t read the books.
“Nice to know ya,” Zane said.
“You from around here?” Tom asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “You look like you might be part Injun.”
“I’m American—like you. My mother is of Chinese descent.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m lost.”
“Where’s your boat?” Tom was leading the way toward the shelter of trees.
“Uh . . . I don’t have one.”
“You swum over?” He glanced at Zane’s plaid shirt and khaki pants. His gaze lingered on the white tennis shoes.
“No.” Might as well tell the truth no matter how strange it sounded. “I got sick and passed out. Woke up here.”
“Maybe you fell in the river upstream and drifted down to this sandbar. Or maybe somebody threw you off a steamboat,” Tom surmised. “But you been here a while ’cause your clothes dried out.”
“If you’s out cold and fell in dis river, you likely drown,” Jim said, “ ’less you’s floatin’ on yo back.”
They seemed genuinely concerned about trying to figure out this mystery.
“Where am I?” Zane asked.
“That’s St. Petersburg over yonder.” Tom jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“What state?”
“You are mighty confused. Missouri, of course.”
“What? I passed out in Delaware.”
“Where’s that?” Huck asked.
“Don’t you recollect your history?” Tom w
as scornful. “One of the colonies. And it’s a blamed long way from here. Off east somers.”
“You sho you wasn’t hit on de head?” Jim asked.
Zane wasn’t sure of anything now. His first instinct was to suspect his friends of an elaborate practical joke. Maybe one of them would pop out from behind a tree any second. His next thought, more fearful, was that he’d lost his sanity. Perhaps he’d eaten some bad mushrooms on that pizza he’d had after his baseball game. That, along with the allergic reaction to the candy bar he’d scarfed up later, might be causing hallucinations. He took a deep breath to calm himself and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty face.
“I was reading about you three,” he said, deciding to play along for now.
“About us?” Huck asked.
“Sure. You’re all characters in a book.”
“Well, don’t that beat all?” Tom grinned. “We’re even more famous than I thought. What book? Who wrote it?”
Zane knew he was being had, but would continue with this Alice-in-Wonderland scenario to see where it led. “There are two books—The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Written by Mark Twain.”
“Mark who?” Tom asked. “Never heard of him. How does he know us?”
“Okay, enough is enough. I like a joke as good as anyone, but, seriously, I need your help to find my way home.” Zane was now convinced he was dreaming. And dreams generally didn’t make much sense.
Jim was staring, wide-eyed, at him. “Witches likely fetched you here. Lots of ’em be flyin’ ’roun in de dark o’ de moon.”
Zane ignored the comment. “I tried calling my parents, but my phone won’t work.” He withdrew his cell phone from its case, and held it up.
“You’re talkin’ outa your head,” Tom said, taking the instrument and turning it over in his hands. “What is this thing?”
“Unless you been on Jupiter for the last forty years, you’d know what that is—a cell phone. And there are models a lot newer and fancier than that one.”
“I think you’re the one who’s been on Jubiter—or maybe just now come from there.”
Zane saw they were talking at cross-purposes. He began to feel uneasy. If he were not dreaming, he had in reality traveled from another time as well as another place. “Look,” he began, “I need to find a way home. I have a little money. If you guys could take me over to that little town maybe I can catch a Greyhound back to Delaware.”
“Here, sit down and lean back against this tree,” Tom said. “I think maybe you been out in the hot sun too long.”
Zane did as directed. “You boys have anything to drink? I’m dyin’ of thirst.” His tongue felt as if it were coated with half-dried glue. “I guess it’d be too much to ask if you had a cold Coke or a Dr. Pepper?”
“What’s that?”
“Thought so. Any kind of soda will do.”
“My Aunt Polly drinks soda water when her stomach’s upset,” Tom said.
“No, no. Not bicarb. This would be like . . .” he tried to think of some long-gone soft drink he’d read about. “Sarsaparilla.”
“All we have is a canteen of water in the boat,” Huck said. “I’ll fetch it.”
Zane was beginning to feel dizzy and hoped he wasn’t about to throw up again. He leaned his head back against the rough bark of the giant oak.
“When we was over here playin’ pirates a couple years ago, we found a spring on this island,” Tom said. “Not sure I could find it again, if it’s still here after the floods.”
A minute later Huck returned and handed him a blanket-sided two-quart canteen. Zane chugged down several swallows of the lukewarm water. He stopped to take a breath, then had another drink. “Thanks.” He handed back the canteen. “Wonder how much a bus ticket is?” He dug into his side pocket and pulled out some change—several pennies, a nickel, two dimes, and a quarter. “Wait.” He withdrew a wallet from a hip pocket and extracted two ones and a five. “That’s not enough to ride the Greyhound from Missouri to Delaware,” he groaned. For the time being, he had to assume all this was real. He was stuck here, unless he could make his cell phone work.
“Lemme see that.” Tom held out his hand.
Zane handed over his money.
Tom held up a penny between thumb and forefinger. “This says, One Cent. Money must be cheap where you come from. Here’s a real penny.” He dug into his pocket and produced a large copper coin about the size of a quarter, but thicker.
Zane looked at it—the head of Lady Liberty and the date of 1849.
“And I never seen bank notes like this around here,” Tom continued. “Maybe they was issued by a St. Louis bank.”
“You know right well the federal treasury printed those,” Zane said. He was tiring of this joke.
Huck was turning over the coins. “Tom, these here sure look real, but they must be from some other country.” He looked at them carefully in the sunlight. “No . . . it says right here, ‘United States of America.’ ”
Tom examined the quarter. “And this one has a picture of George Washington on it.”
They all looked at each other with blank expressions.
In spite of the heat, a chill went over Zane.
“Appears to me what we have here,” Tom said slowly as if revealing a great truth, “is a boy from some other time—likely the future. Just you take a look at all the evidence,” he said, assuming the role of detective. “He don’t know how he come to be here. He’s talkin’ about ridin’ a greyhound, which everybody knows is a skinny, fast dog; he’s wearin’ shoes in the summertime and they’re made out of some kind of canvas and not leather; he’s usin’ spectacles which ain’t worn by nobody but old people.” He took hold of the cuff of Zane’s shirt between thumb and forefinger. “This here shirt’s been sewed by a machine in a factory somers; he’s carrying strange money that he says is made by the United States government; he says he can talk to his parents through that little box on his belt. He asks for a strange drink that some doctor has put pepper in. He is part Chinese. Now, I ask you, if that ain’t proof he’s from another time, then this ain’t 1849.”
Zane’s stomach contracted. “Oh my God! Is this really 1849? Then I’ve somehow traveled back almost two hundred years into the past.” He was feeling an empty panic as if he were leaning too far over the edge of a cliff.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tom said, still acting as spokesman for the other two. “I’m acceptin’ of it, if you are. Lots of strange things in this world we can’t understand—like steam locomotives and balloons that fly over the ocean, and the workings of Providence. But while you’re here, we can have lots of fun. Then we’ll see about starting you back to your home.” He turned to Zane who was still sitting with his back to the tree. “We was discussin’ plans to go adventurin’ over in the territory, and you can come with us.”
“No . . . I need to be on my way. My folks . . .”
“Your folks, my granny!” Tom said. “They ain’t nowhere’s close to even bein’ born yet.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
All four of them eventually agreed, for lack of a better explanation, that Zane had come here from another time and place.
Because this newcomer was human, like them, Tom declared that Zane was not from another planet.
For a half hour or more they discussed the “how” and “why” of it with various degrees of insight and many unanswered questions.
“Should we ask Judge Thatcher or Widow Douglas or even the schoolmaster, Mister Dobbins, if they can explain this?” Tom wondered.
“What about the preacher?” Huck asked. “He knows all about angels and ghostly stuff.”
Zane shook his head. “You can bet these grown-ups don’t have any better ideas about traveling through time than anyone else,” he said. “I think it’s contrary to most religious beliefs. As a matter of fact, they’d think you—we—were all crazy or had sunstroke or something.”
“But they’ve all lived longer and ma
ybe come across this before, even if they don’t know what causes it.” Tom said.
“More ’an likely a steamboat pilot or cap’n woulda knowed some travelers through time,” Huck opined. “They prob’ly met thousands of folks on the river—more ’an the preacher or the schoolmaster.”
“Dey could ’splain it if dey believed in witches,” Jim said.
“Yeah, but none of those folks believe in witches,” Tom said. “So we’d best keep mum about this for now, ’cause we ain’t able to show ’em no proof that it’s real.”
Zane pushed back his shirtsleeve and looked at his watch. “Hey, guys, I feel okay now. It’s past one o’clock and I’m hungry.”
“What’s that on your arm?”
“My watch.”
“Never saw a watch that little,” Tom said. “That’s right handy.”
“The widow, she wears a little gold watch on a chain around her neck,” Huck said. “And she can pin it on her shirtwaist, too.”
Zane took it off and let Huck and Tom examine this curiosity. “It’s all sweaty and dirty now. Sunlight keeps it running.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Like sun keeps plants growing.”
“Another of the wonders from your time, I reckon,” Tom said, handing it back.
“You ever see one of these?” Zane continued, slipping a rollerball pen from his shirt pocket. He clicked it open and wrote a few squiggles on a computer receipt from Benito’s Pizza Parlor. Both proved to be items of wonderment.
Zane explained them, then decided to have even more fun. “Here’s something I bet you haven’t seen.” He pulled aside the fly flap on his khakis and worked the zipper up and down. “It’s called a zipper.”
“If dat don’t beat all,” Jim marveled. “No buttons or ties to keep de britches shut.”
“Another wonder of the twenty-first century,” Zane said. “But I read where it was invented a hundred years before these pants were made. Elias Howe, who also invented the sewing machine, patented something like it in 1851 but didn’t do anything with it. A handy little mechanism.”
