Time Castaways #2

by Liesl Shurtliff

  Memories suddenly rushed upon her, one after the other. Her father, holding his own compass, navigating at the helm of his ship. He told Belamie that one day she would be captain and his ship and compass would be hers. She had believed him, had looked forward to the day. Now it was all at the bottom of the ocean—the ship, the compass, and her parents. Try as she might, she could never quite remember how she’d survived or how she’d gotten inside the skiff. Did her father put her inside of it? Her mother? Why didn’t they come with her?

  Belamie shivered as a sudden cool wind gusted. A small wave rocked the boat. She studied the compass again. Such a strange thing. She wondered what the dials were for, what the symbols meant. She turned the outer dial. It made a soft clicking noise. Then turned the other dials, too, back and forth. The compass suddenly grew warm in her hands. The skiff plummeted at least a foot and the water around her began to hiss and bubble. Belamie dropped the compass. It fell to the bottom of the boat as she reached for the oars, but they were no help. She was already traveling far faster than she could possibly row.

  Marius Quine, the so-called jinni, watched from the beach as Belamie Bonnaire and her little boat disappeared. His heart skipped a beat when it happened, even though he knew it would happen. He’d known this moment would come for years, and yet he couldn’t help the rock that formed in his throat, the mixture of excitement and panic. He almost wanted to go after her, make sure she would be all right. But he knew she would be fine. For a time anyway. The danger, and the sorrow, would come later.

  He wiped a bit of sweat off his forehead and removed his gloves like a farmer who had just finished sowing the seed in his fields and now only needed to wait until harvest. It had not been simple or easy, getting to this moment. There were so many threads, so many years and places and lives all circling and spiraling around each other. There were so many opportunities for mistakes, and so little room to get it right, but he knew this was how it all began.

  “Mr. Quine?” a voice called behind him. It sent prickles up his neck, and he felt his features begin to sharpen and pull into focus. He fought against it, felt his face flicker in and out, like an intermittent radio signal. He was getting interference from present company.

  Slowly, he turned around and faced the boy.

  And this was how it all would end.

  2

  Doppelgänger

  THE NEW YORK TIMES

  April 28, 2019

  Mayhem at the Met

  ON FRIDAY, APRIL 26, AT APPROXIMATELY 5:00 a.m., an MTA bus careened down Fifth Avenue and crashed into the Metropolitan Museum of Art, effectively breaking in. Though it appears no art was stolen, several artifacts and displays were damaged, some beyond repair.

  The incident is still under investigation by the NYPD and FBI, and reports are hazy and incomplete, but all sources have named a single family at the center of the chaos. Matthew Hudson, director of museum archives, and his wife, Belamie Hudson, a freelance restorationist recently contracted by the museum to curate a special exhibit, were reported on the scene within minutes of the crash, only to find their three children in the wreckage (Mateo, age 11, Corey, age 11, and Ruby, age 11). Injuries were minor, according to an EMT on the scene. A police report filed yesterday afternoon stated that the Hudson children had been abducted by an unnamed suspect who has yet to be apprehended. The children were abducted in the early hours of the morning, but fought with the man, which caused the crash. The abductor and his accomplices took off shortly after a violent skirmish in the Arms and Armor exhibit. The abductor is described as five foot eleven, medium build, dark hair and beard, wearing all black with red Converse. He supposedly carries a white rat in his pocket. (The police officer stated this detail was supplied by one of the Hudson children.)

  Police and FBI are searching extensively for the suspect and asking the public to come forward with any information, though the Hudsons have not been ruled out as possible suspects themselves. A reliable source says that Mr. Hudson, upon entering the scene, did not follow the museum’s standard emergency protocol.

  “I heard the crash,” said Bartek Kowalski, a night guard at the museum. “I was in the upper gallery. No alarms went off. They were disabled for some reason. When Mr. Hudson and his wife showed up, they told me they’d handle it and I should go get a cup of coffee. I didn’t like it, but he is my boss, so what could I do?”

  Mr. Hudson has been put on unpaid leave for the foreseeable future, and Mrs. Hudson’s contracted work has been canceled. Damages to the museum are estimated at $1.3 million.

  The Hudsons did not respond to a request for comment.

  May 3, 2019

  Hudson River Valley, New York

  It was a quiet, peaceful spring day on the Hudson family vineyard. The sky was clear and blue. The squirrels and birds chattered in their nests while the wind whispered through the big willow tree by the pond full of singing toads. The grapevines were draped artfully in straight rows and sparkled silver in the afternoon sun. It was a lovely scene, something an artist would paint in a picture, but the Hudson children—Mateo and twins Ruby and Corey—couldn’t have cared less. They weren’t even outside enjoying the fine weather. They were all cooped up in a small room, crouched beneath the window, heads hovering over a vent.

  “Ouch, Corey, move over,” Ruby demanded in a whisper. “You’re stepping on my fingers!”

  “Move your fingers, then,” said Corey.

  “Shh!” said Matt. “Be quiet! If they hear us, this is all over.”

  Matt was quite uncomfortable himself. The corner of the windowsill was jabbing into his side, and his back and legs were cramped from crouching for so long. Additionally, he was holding a notebook and pen and was trying to position himself in such a way that allowed him to both write and hear well at the same time, which resulted in a rather awkward sort of yoga pose. His parents’ voices were muffled, and they weren’t talking all that loudly, but if he really focused, he could understand what they were saying.

  “Is that it?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “It looks like he’s in Siberia.”

  There was a dull rustling sound, the jostling of thick sheets of paper.

  “They’re looking at the map!” whispered Ruby. “They’re tracking the Vermillion!”

  Yes, Matt thought Ruby was probably right. Up until last week this map had hung above their dining room table in their Manhattan apartment. Matt had always thought it was just another one of his father’s old maps, but now he knew it was much more than just an old piece of paper with borderlines and countries and capitals. This map had the power to trace the whereabouts and when-abouts of a certain time-traveling ship called the Vermillion.

  “No,” said Mr. Hudson. “See, the mark isn’t blazing, but it’s dark enough so we know it was recent travel, at least according to our timeline. Wrangel Island?”

  Wrangel Island. Matt wrote it down in his notebook.

  “Why would Vincent travel to Siberia now, and so far back?” Mr. Hudson asked.

  “Probably discarding old crew,” said Mrs. Hudson.

  Matt paused his writing and sucked in a breath.

  “Jia . . . ,” whispered Ruby.

  Jia was their friend on the Vermillion. She and Matt had grown especially close during their time there. She had even betrayed Captain Vincent to help them get home. Matt tried not to imagine what might have happened to her, but sometimes he got flashes in his mind and it turned his stomach.

  “Here,” said Mr. Hudson. “He’s in Chicago right now, in 1893. That’s the year of the World’s Columbian Exposition. Why would he be there?”

  “It’s one of the coordinates given on Quine’s letter,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I traveled there myself once, but the mission was . . . disrupted, and then we met, so . . .”

  Matt felt a flutter in his chest. He quickly wrote down Chicago, 1893. He’d been pestering his parents all week to tell him what was going on, but they kept putting him off. “We’ll let you know when something important comes up,” h
is mother said, which Matt thought was incredibly unfair. They got to decide what was important and what was not, which meant he, Ruby, and Corey knew very little. But what could they do? They were just kids. The parents held all the power.

  Until yesterday, that is, when Matt heard their voices coming up through the vent in the kids’ bedroom. He, Corey, and Ruby had practically been glued to this spot ever since. They’d learned more in a few short conversations than they had all week.

  “Are you sure you haven’t seen him in New York these past weeks?” Mrs. Hudson’s worried voice traveled up to them. “Anywhere near at all?”

  “Not since the day he took the kids,” said Mr. Hudson.

  “If he comes,” said Mrs. Hudson, her voice quivering, “and we don’t notice . . . if he gets the kids again . . .”

  “He won’t,” said Mr. Hudson firmly. “We won’t make the same mistakes as last time, and the kids won’t either. They know now. We’re all on our guard. It’s going to be okay, Belamie, I promise.”

  Matt thought he heard his mom sniff back tears, and he felt just a bit sorry for his parents. He was beginning to understand the weight and worry they’d carried on their shoulders, not only in the past few weeks, but for years, especially his mom.

  One week ago (according to their kitchen calendar at least) on April 26, 2019, Matt, Ruby, and Corey broke their number one family rule and boarded a subway train in New York, alone. The next thing they knew they were in Paris, France, in the year 1911. Unbeknownst to the Hudson children, the train they had boarded was not a train at all, but a transforming time-traveling ship called the Vermillion, powered and steered by the Obsidian Compass. The Vermillion’s mysterious leader, Captain Vincent, and his ragtag crew of time pirates had taken the Hudson children all over the world and throughout history, performing thrilling heists and daring missions. They thought they were having the trip of a lifetime, until they realized that Captain Vincent had plans of his own that did not include returning the Hudson children home.

  With a bit of luck and a lot of help, the children had managed to escape Captain Vincent and get home to New York, only to discover that their own mother had once been a time pirate herself and was not on the friendliest terms with Captain Vincent. The Hudsons had managed to defend themselves and stick together, but Captain Vincent and his crew had escaped with the Obsidian Compass and the Vermillion, leaving the Hudsons vulnerable to future attacks. That’s why they had fled upstate to stay with Mr. Hudson’s mother on the family vineyard. It was safer than the big city, teeming with people and traffic. You can’t accidentally board the wrong train if there’s no train to board.

  His dad started talking again. Matt leaned in to hear.

  “. . . possible the compass stopped working?” Mr. Hudson asked. “You said you could never travel past 2019. Maybe we’re past that point?”

  “He still has a few weeks left.”

  “Do you have an exact date?”

  Mrs. Hudson did not reply. Matt’s heart suddenly started to beat a little faster. He wasn’t sure why.

  “Tell me, Belamie,” said Mr. Hudson. “I need to know.”

  Mrs. Hudson whimpered the answer, but it was clear enough. “June first.”

  Matt felt his stomach drop. Ruby and Corey both leaned back and looked at him. June first was his birthday, just a few weeks away.

  Mr. Hudson let out an exhale loud enough so Matt could hear it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it really mattered,” said Mrs. Hudson. “It’s only a coincidence.”

  “Belamie, how can you say that?” Mr. Hudson’s voice rose. “You know it must matter. You know Mateo is—”

  “What are you kids up to?” said a voice behind them.

  Matt dropped his notebook and lost his balance. He fell back on his bottom as their grandmother walked into the room with a basket of laundry. Corey grabbed Matt’s notebook, placed it over the vent and sat on it, while Ruby jumped up and shouted, “Nothing! We were just playing a game!” entirely too loud and chipper to be innocent.

  Matt picked himself up. He had half a mind to shove Corey off the vent and try to hear what his dad was saying right now. He had been about to say something important. Something about him. “Mateo is what?!” he wanted to scream into the vent. But it was no use now.

  Grandma Gloria, affectionately known as “Gaga” (that’s how Matt said her name when he was little), was a petite woman with silver hair, black square glasses, and hot pink lipstick. She wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and combat boots. Matt had always thought she was the coolest grandma in the world, but right now he found her thoroughly annoying. Why did she have to come put away laundry now?

  “You three look delightfully guilty,” said Gaga. “Eavesdropping on your parents, are we?”

  “Eavesdropping?” said Ruby in a scandalized tone.

  “Oh no, we’d never do such a thing,” said Corey.

  Matt looked longingly at the vent currently covered by his notebook and Corey’s bottom. Whatever his dad was going to say about him was said by now.

  Gaga just smiled. “I remember when your uncle Charles used to eavesdrop on your grandfather and me in that very spot,” she said as she put their clean clothes in the dresser. “I never could figure out how he knew all the family secrets when he was only five, and then I figured it out, so that night, when I knew he was listening, I casually told your grandfather that I’d finalized all the paperwork to send Charles off to boarding school in Tanzania. I thought I was so clever. And then years later, Charles ran away. And where do you think he went? Tanzania! Sent me a picture and everything, little devil. He was always giving me a run for the wine cellar.”

  Charles was Mr. Hudson’s younger brother. None of the children had ever met their uncle Charles, though they’d seen pictures and heard plenty of stories about him from their dad. Matt thought he sounded a lot like Corey, always pulling stunts and pranks. He was a geologist or something like that, so he was always off on some expedition, hiking mountains and volcanoes. He hadn’t been home in years. Last they heard, he was in Peru. Matt had seen a Polaroid stuck to the fridge of their uncle Charles at the top of a mountain, a younger, more mischievous-looking version of their dad.

  “So . . . the moral of the story is,” said Corey, “eavesdrop on your parents as much as possible so you know when it’s time to run away?”

  “Haven’t your poor parents been through enough with you three nearly being kidnapped?” Gaga lowered her voice to a whisper. “By the way, while you were eavesdropping, did you hear any more about that maniac? Did the police catch him yet?”

  Gaga knew nothing of what had really happened to the kids, and their parents wanted to keep it that way. They said things were complicated enough. It was best to keep others out of it, so for all Gaga knew the kids had simply been kidnapped by a maniac who used to know their mother, which was true. They just didn’t tell her that the maniac was a time-traveling pirate from the eighteenth century.

  “No,” said Ruby. “The police are still looking.”

  “Well, you’re safe with me. There are no maniacs here. Just buckets of wine, bless that vineyard. It’s heaven.” Gaga laughed as she tossed underwear in a drawer, and then an engine rumbled in the distance and the sound drew steadily nearer. Matt stiffened. He looked to Ruby and Corey. They all three at once jumped up and dashed toward the door. “Gotta go, Gaga!” said Corey.

  “Don’t run down the stairs! That’s how your father broke his arm!”

  They all ignored their grandmother’s advice and ran down the stairs just as their parents came rushing down the hall. Mrs. Hudson was brandishing a fire poker, and Mr. Hudson had a baseball bat.

  “Stay inside, kids!” said Mr. Hudson, but they didn’t obey their parents either. They followed them out the door and onto the porch. Ruby picked up a long, thin metal stick Matt had seen Gaga use to turn on her sprinklers and got in a defensive stance alongside Mrs. Hudson. Corey pulled out a slingshot from his back
pocket. He loaded it with a marble and hopped onto the railing. Matt was the only one without some kind of weapon, but he didn’t need one. If the Vermillion appeared, all he cared about was getting Jia.

  “It’s coming toward the house!” said Corey. “It’s a white van!”

  Matt moved to run down the porch stairs, but Mrs. Hudson snatched him back by the collar and held him tightly to her with one arm while still holding out the fire poker.

  The rumbling of the engine grew louder, and a moment later an unmarked white van appeared through the trees. The van pulled up to the house and squeaked to a stop. A man stepped out. He had dark hair and a beard. Mrs. Hudson tightened her grip on Matt’s shoulder, so he could feel her nails digging into his skin. He didn’t blame her. Captain Vincent had dark hair and a beard, too, but this was not Captain Vincent. He was shorter and heavier, and he wore glasses. He whistled as he opened the side of the van and pulled out a box full of groceries, but when he turned around and caught sight of the Hudsons he stopped short and went silent midwhistle.

  “Hello?” he said. “I have a delivery for . . .” He glanced down at the clipboard in his box. “Gloria Hudson?”

  “That’s our grandma,” said Corey, his slingshot still cocked and ready to launch.

  “Okay . . . may I approach please?”

  Mrs. Hudson nodded, but she didn’t lower the fire poker, and she didn’t loosen her hold on Matt. Ruby still had the sprinkler stick pointed toward him. Only Mr. Hudson seemed to have relaxed at all. He set down his baseball bat. “Here, I got it.”

  He stepped down and took the box from the man, who then quickly backed away. “Have a nice day!” he squeaked, and hopped in his van. He drove away much faster than he had driven up.

  “I told you it was nothing,” said Mr. Hudson, hefting the groceries onto the porch. “Poor guy probably thinks we’re all lunatics.”