by D. J. Gelner
On the third hand, my knuckles lodged themselves in the ends of the armrests as I nearly messed my pants with terror.
Eventually the chromatic operetta outside of the craft ceased as I cautiously opened one wrenched eye, then another. In front of me, little larger than the bottom of a pint glass, was the same Earth that I had just vacated, though the shimmering lights of cities and satellites had disappeared. No, this was a new, virginal Earth, unpocked by centuries of man’s influence.
“And I’m about to run a hand up her skirt.” I said to no one in particular.
Not by plowing into the planet at full speed or causing some kind of environmental catastrophe, mind you, but rather I felt dirty by simply being there, in a time where I didn’t belong. My capacity for disrupting the time stream was at that time virtually limitless, and I was determined to prevent myself from blinking…myself…and countless others out of existence with a wayward glance or a poorly-timed fart.
I pushed the button on the console to activate the omni-yoke, and guided the craft back toward the blue orb that hung in front of me. As inexperienced as I was with the damned contraption, I managed to stutter the ship along with several jolts punctuated by abrupt stops.
Once I had guided the ship in range, the computer once again took over, and the ride became significantly smoother. I watched as entire continents soared by, first the Americas (“watch out for those ruinous Europeans!” I wanted to cry, half in jest), followed by the Continent and Africa beneath it. Just to the right and above was my target, the Middle East, still sporting the Arabian Peninsula as the light brown rhinoceros head looking to butt into India (at least that’s what I always thought it looked like).
Thankfully, I had enough power available to engage the cloaking device as I descended above the harsh, craggy Judean landscape, dotted only by the odd tree or two.
It looks so…dusty…was my first thought.
My second was that I should have added sunscreen to the glove box.
Finally, as I saw the mud-baked houses and clear blue sky, my mind came to terms with what I had just accomplished.
I had become the first time traveller in human history!
What a mind-boggling feat, but one so befitting all of the hard work and sacrifice I had put in to that point! It had worked, and done so beautifully. Gone was the horrendous fallout and bombed-out landscape. The tan rocks looked positively pristine compared with what I had come to associate with this part of the world.
The only remaining question was how accurate I had been.
I looked for an out-of-the-way cave that could accommodate the time machine, but couldn’t find one. I settled instead for an out-of-the-way patch of desert several hundred yards from the nearest town; I presumed that a cluster of trees would be unnecessary for cover, and might only attract more visitors seeking shade from the unforgiving sun.
I could barely contain my excitement! Eager to leave, I had to remind myself to bring a number of coins from my “Roman” cache with which to barter. I thought for a moment before I decided to keep the Baretta on my person, though, in hindsight, by doing so I disregarded all of the fears and lectures about timeline pollution that my Benefactor had impressed upon me.
It turned out those were to be the least of my worries.
Satisfied that I had enough supplies to last me until the evening, I made my way to the exit of the craft. I inhaled deeply and took my first step into a new era.
I wonder what Neil Armstrong thought? was all that ran through my head at the time.
I practically skipped from the craft to the walls of the city, so giddy was I to finally make contact with some of the locals, time stream pollution be damned. The village consisted of a large central square, which gave way to a larger, central building, where a bustling throng of people milled about. I was astonished to find that I stuck out like a dislocated elbow due to my height; I towered over the denizens despite being only slightly above-average in height in my own time. My stature drew several gawks from passers-by, which threw me into a momentary panic; what if my presence was already affecting the timeline?
I darted into an alleyway between two shops and eyed the rest of the square. A somewhat smaller building stood next door to the impressive one, and counted many children of various ages among its patronage. Around the edges of the square, shopkeeps’ cries created an awful din of hard “ch” sounds, followed by streams of words that were even unintelligible to me despite my hyper vigilance and Aramaic-slash-Hebrew lessons.
Beyond the shops, several layers of decrepit houses completed what I must admit was a rather unimpressive scene, topped by the horrific smell of a mass of humanity and free-flowing sewage baked into the ground by the unrelenting sun that seemed to be omnipresent in this town, a scent which even now causes me to gag.
It was then that the realisation struck me: this might not be where Jesus ben Joseph was at all.
He could be hundreds of miles away, ministering to masses in another similarly foul-smelling town. To compound matters, the residents of this city may not even know who Jesus was, nor ever had any contact with the man. Judaism, though a respected cult, tolerated by the Romans at the time, was still that; a cult. There was no guarantee that this was a Jewish town. I began to sweat as much from the midday sun as from the epiphany that I may be staring down a long, arduous process of trial-and-error.
To make matters worse, as I gained my bearings, a particularly gruff-looking denizen covered in warts emptied a chamber-pot all over my feet, without apparent regard for any form of decorum or standards.
“Slikha?!” I yelled the Hebrew word for “sorry” at the man, momentarily forgetting my Aramaic; thankfully I didn’t lapse into the King’s. The warty fellow glared at me, one eye swollen shut by some awful disease, the other maddeningly open and round, as if to balance his awful, pock-marked face.
“Raaaugh,” was the approximate “harrumph” that he made at me, and continued on his way.
Add Purell to the “day pack,” I thought.
I shuffled my shit-covered feet through the dust to soak up some of the slime as I made my way to the crowd gathered around the large, impressive building. As I approached it, I made out a large Star of David carved into the exterior, and I knew I was in luck.
“It MUST be Nazareth!” I thought aloud, sadly in the King’s, hopefully only a whisper among the din of the shops.
There were few entirely Jewish enclaves at this point in Roman history. Fewer still had this many people shoved into such a small space, owing to the fact that the city was located near more populated cities in Galilee. The combination of the large synagogue and throngs of people indicated that I had found my intended target, after all. Or I should say that the QC had found it.
My hopes renewed, I looked to the mob gathered around the front of the temple, but only found an older Rabbi giving a sermon in Aramaic. The Son of God was nowhere to be found.
Frustrated, I decided to make my way to one of the shops along the fringe of the square to ask about the Son of God’s whereabouts. I’m actually rather proud of myself that the first shop I thought of stopping at was a finished wooden goods store; after all, whom better to ask regarding the whereabouts of a carpenter?
I ducked through the doorway, guarded only by a coarsely-woven cloth, and emerged in a dark room filled with chairs, cribs, and all manner of furniture. The shopkeep was (of course) short and bald. A well-worn robe covered his stocky frame, and a disheveled beard framed his rotund face. Despite the lack of hair atop his head, I thought that he bore more than a passing resemblance to Avi, and wondered if the two may have been related.
“May I help you?” The shopkeep asked in Aramaic (I’ll translate to appropriate English phrasing from this point onward).
“Thou tellst me, fair shopkeep, what town doth I have the pleasure of enchanting?” (Avi’s skills, though unparalleled for the time, may not have been as practical in dealing with actual ancient Aramaic-speakers).
This garne
red a raised eyebrow from the shopkeep.
“Nazareth.”
I strained to hide the smile that begged to cross my face. I approached the counter at the far end of the room.
“Yay, thou seest. Doth thy know one carpenter, goeth by the name Jesus ben Joseph?” The shopkeep replied with a blank stare.
I began to wonder if such inquiries were handled in much the same manner then as they are now. I fumbled with the purse attached to my belt for several moments before I produced one of the faux-patinaed, Roman coins and flung it cooly at the shopkeep.
The shopkeep picked up the coin and eyed it for a few moments before he turned it over. A foul, bothered look washed over the man’s face as he eyed me again, though this time with far more disgust.
In one motion, the man flung the coin back at me, spit in my face, grabbed my hand, and brought up a scimitar, which hovered over my outstretched forearm.
“Blasphemer!” The man yelled at me. My pulse beat like a terrified drum inside my head as my mouth went dry. I tried to pull my hand away, but the stout fellow was surprisingly strong for his size and would not relent. I squirmed and may or may not have let out a bit of a shriek in a moment of rushed terror.
“Easy, Yacob!” An easy-going, but firm voice stopped the sword dead in its tracks.
I turned around, fully expecting to see that a kindly Roman soldier had saved my hide.
Instead, it was a spindly fellow, perhaps a bit taller even than I, who looked pale, but handsome in a way that no one else I had seen to this point had. His beard was shaggy, but still much better-groomed than the shopkeep’s. What stuck out most were his teeth, as white and straight as two rows of chicklets, and the kind, almost intoxicating smile on his face. And suddenly it all came together:
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, almost under my breath.
Chapter Three
“What’s it to you, Yeshua? This man uses blasphemous money!” The shopkeep kept his grip on my hand, but picked up the coin (while somehow maintaining hold of the scimitar) and flung it at the Son of God.
Jesus eyed the coin for a moment before he looked at me intently. He moved around me a number of times and even took the fabric of my clothing between his fingers for several seconds. He turned his back to the shopkeep and raised an eyebrow before he cocked his head downward, toward his midsection.
I followed the cue, and saw his left hand separated into three parts, an outstretched thumb, with pointer and middle fingers joined together, and ring and pinky forming a third digit.
The Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper” sign from Star Trek? I thought.
The look on my face must’ve been suitably blank, as Jesus furrowed his brow and his mouth went taut with annoyance. He affixed a rather phony grin to his visage as he turned toward the shopkeep.
“Worry not, dear Yacob—a Roman traveler who knows not our customs. I shall teach him our ways and ensure that such a misunderstanding does not occur again.”
“You had better,” the shopkeep spat the words at me, “lest this Roman dog’s HAND be cast asunder from his arm!”
Jesus shook his head, “He is a child of God, my son. Same as any Israelite or beggar, and as such so deserves our pity.”
The shopkeep looked over the Son of Man suspiciously before he broke into a broad smile.
“Indeed you are right, Yeshua. Go, take your Roman dog and ‘enlighten’ him as to our ways.”
“Thank you, dear Yacob, for being so understanding.” Jesus nodded at me slowly, urging me to take the hint.
“Thankest thou, fair shopkeep, for not splitting mine arm in twain—” Jesus interrupted my clumsy attempt at gratitude by grabbing me under my arm and dragging me from the shop around the corner into the alleyway. I was caught between the natural urge to run away from such discomport and my state of general awe at being pulled by the Son of Man.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
I tilted my head. I thought the words had come from the man who was presently dragging me, in English, plain as day.
No, no, must be a trick of the ear, you dolt, I thought. Be more careful lest you let such an utterance escape the confines of your own mind!
Jesus pulled me into a doorway, which led to a simple mud room. Various wooden devices were scattered about that made the room look like an Inquisition-era torture chamber, a sentiment that was not lost on my sense of irony. The spindly carpenter placed me in one of the dozen-or-so chairs that dotted the dwelling and pulled over another seat to face me.
“DO…YOU…SPEAK…ENGLISH?” Jesus asked slowly, with the intonation of a California surfer.
I was stunned. I had no idea how to respond to such an inquiry. For so long, I had geared up for having a long, drawn-out conversation in what now appeared to be “Old Aramaic,” that the words hit me like a brick to the face.
“Uh…hablas Español? No, wait…I should probably use the formal Usted—” Jesus continued.
“You…you speak ENGLISH?” My eyes bulged from their sockets with the question.
“Uh, duh, bro,” he looked at me incredulously. “What the hell is ChronoSaber thinking? I mean, your costume is terrible—the headdress is simply atrocious! And those sandals! But the coins—that shit could get someone killed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He flipped a coin at me, which was identical to the one I had used, save for a smooth side where the Emperor’s face had been.
“It’s not cool to use money with the Emperor’s face on it in a Jewish town, bro. Something to do with ‘worshipping false idols,’ or some bullshit like that. Did they, like, want you to die?”
He let the words sink in for a moment before he rose from his chair and walked over to a nightstand-like creation, which featured several warped planks and irregular nails, and pulled it over next to him, “Look, I know, I know, I have a bunch of fans,” Jesus opened the drawer and took out a glossy sheet of paper. He produced a Sharpie from one of the drawers and scrawled a signature over it quickly before he threw the headshot at me. “Here you go. Man, those ChronoSaber guys were such hard-asses when I came back, but now I guess they let any old asshole jump in a time machine.”
As he continued to lecture me (he lectured ME! About time travel!), I began to sweat profusely. The beads pooled on my forehead and sent a shiver down my neck.
“You’re a…you’re a…you’re a time traveller?”
Jesus rolled his eyes, “Uh…yeah man. Isn’t that why you’re here, too?”
I struggled to compose myself, “Well good man, then today you are the one in good luck, for I am none other than Phineas Templeton, the father of time travel!” I raised my right hand reflexively as I built toward the apex of my proclamation. “And though I may not have any ‘head shots,’ though I should certainly look into getting some, I suppose, it is my great pleasure to meet someone so touched by my creation.” I stretched a lean hand out toward the man, with as broad of a smile as I could muster at the moment.
He looked me over once more before he shook his head, “Naw. No way, man.”
“What? What the devil do you mean?”
“You’re not Commander Corcoran.”
“Commander who?” I felt the colour drain from my face.
“Sorry bro, you’re like, way too gangly to be him. Good try, though—you had me going for a minute. Nobody ever tried that one on me before.”
“Now see here, sir, would you take me for a li—”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down, bud,” he took me by the shoulders and sat me in one of the (I must say in hindsight: poorly-crafted) chairs. He sat facing me, “Now what did you say your name was again?”
“Phineas Templeton,” I ground the words out through clenched teeth. “Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Trent,” he stuck his hand out. I grasped it only out of bred English politeness. “Trent Albertson. Originally from Denver, but I’ve spent the past…oh, I don’t know…ten? Twelve? Fifteen? How long has it been?” I could virtually see the cannabis s
moke waft across the interior of his head through his pupils. “Anyway, you probably know the story, right?”
“Refresh my memory,” I hoped my glare suitably conveyed my level of frustration.
“Dude, seriously? Wow, I haven’t been asked this in a while. Let’s see…” he looked up at the ceiling for several uncomfortable moments as if hoping that the answer to my simple question might just fall from the sky and rattle around whatever remained of his brain. “I…uh…well…hmm…” he snorted once, “I was at school in Boulder for like, ten years, man…oh yeah! So, like time-travel had just been de-regulated, and I—”
“De-regulated time travel?!” I couldn’t help but interrupt.
“Yeah man,” Jesus…sorry, “Trent” said.
“But what of the timeline? What the devil have you done—are we doing to it? Have we changed all of history? Did the Nazis win the war? Is there even a future to which I can return?” My chest tightened and heaved with deep, choking breaths as the distinct possibility that I had, to use a scientific term, “royally fucked things up,” lodged itself in my mind.
Trent nodded, “Slow down, bro—everything’s fine. The Nazis were still dicks and we still beat them.”
My pulse slowed measurably. “Ah…well…that’s a relief,” I said far too awkwardly. “But how is that possi—”
“It’s like,” Trent preempted my question, “It’s like the ChronoSaber guys explained to me—whatever happened, like happened already, you know?”
I made sure that my stare informed Trent that I most certainly did not.
“Okay, think of it this way; what year are you from?”
“2032,” I replied tersely.
“Right on. Great year.” He looked at me with a blank veneer.
“Please, good sir, to the secrets of the universe,” I tried to spur him on.
“Sure thing, bro. So, after Commander Corcoran came back from his first time jump, it started to become clear that nothing had changed. At least, that’s what Commander Corcoran said. Everything was exactly as he had left it, no matter what he did, and this was, like, vericified by everyone that came after him. Whatever happened…happened.”
