Time Castaways #2

by Liesl Shurtliff

  “Coming!” Matt started to walk back toward the house. He was halfway across the vineyard when he heard a thump and a grunt. There was some shuffling and rustling in the row right next to him and then a head popped through the vines.

  Matt froze.

  He was staring at himself!

  3

  Tinkering

  “Oops!” said the other Matt, and he ducked down and ran away.

  Matt, present-Matt, stood rooted to the spot. Was that it? Had he cracked? Or had he really just come face-to-face with himself?

  You weren’t supposed to see yourself, he knew. That was one of the rules of time travel. It could cause a glitch or a ripple in the timeline, which could then cause a storm or an earthquake. At least that’s what Captain Vincent had told him, and Matt had seen proof this was true when he, Corey, and Ruby had accidentally run into their own father in the past. It had nearly cost the Mets the 1986 World Series. But seeing yourself, and seemingly in the not-so-distant future? That would surely cause a glitch on a much larger scale. Matt braced himself for some kind of explosion, for the sky to fall or the ground to open up and swallow him. But nothing happened. Not so much as a whisper of wind. Had he imagined it?

  Matt heard voices, someone shouting, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. And he smelled something. He sniffed.

  Peanut butter!

  Matt’s stomach flipped. The Vermillion always smelled of peanut butter. Jia always used it for repairs! Could it be here? Was Jia here? And who else?

  Matt started to walk the length of the vineyard, slowly at first, carefully peering down each row. He heard footsteps coming down the row on the other side of him. Closer and closer. The peanut butter aroma grew stronger. Matt’s heart thumped louder. He made a split-second decision, ducked beneath the vines and ran right into someone. But it wasn’t himself, nor was it Jia, or any of the Vermillion’s crew. It was just Chuck, Gaga’s old farm manager.

  “Geez Louise!” Chuck shouted. “You scared the beetle juice outa me!”

  “Sorry,” said Matt.

  “Oh criminy, there goes my sandwich.” Chuck bent over and picked up a sandwich covered in dirt. A peanut butter sandwich. That explained the smell. Chuck tried to dust off the dirty sandwich and stuffed it in his shorts pocket. Matt had never seen Chuck up close before, only from a distance. He was kind of an old hippy. He had long wiry gray hair and a scraggly beard. He wore a tan fishing hat and a tie-dyed T-shirt with a purple peace symbol, and he was holding a golf club over his shoulder. He swung it down and held it out to Matt. “Found my putter.”

  “Uh . . . okay,” said Matt. Should he congratulate him or something?

  “Don’t you want it?” said Chuck.

  “Do I?” said Matt.

  “Well, you said you did, didn’t you? You came running right by here shouting, ‘I need a putter! I need a putter!’ Sounded pretty urgent, so I ran and got my putter out of Blossom.”

  “Who’s Blossom?” asked Matt.

  Chuck took a deep breath and then hung his head as he blew out in exasperation. “Blossom is my bus!” he said, pointing to the orange VW bus. “Anyway, this is a pretty good putter. Want me to give you some putting tips? The key is to lead with your hips.” He jutted out his hip a little to the side as he swung the club.

  “Oh. Yeah,” said Matt, taking a few steps back. “I thought I needed a putter, but I don’t anymore. Thanks though.”

  Chuck slumped and shook his head. “Geez Louise, kids these days change their minds faster than I can flip a flapjack.”

  Matt heard the door to the house open and slam shut, then open and shut again. “Mateo, where are you going?” he heard his mother call.

  “Be right there!” someone shouted back, but not Matt. At least not present-Matt. The voice sent a strange kind of vibration in his throat and chest, as if his vocal cords had been strummed like a guitar.

  “Sounds like you’re late for dinner,” said Chuck.

  Matt raced toward the house. He heard someone else’s pounding footsteps too. He reached the edge of the vineyard just in time to see himself run around to the back of the house. Matt hesitated. He knew it was dangerous to see yourself. It could cause any number of disasters. But he had to know how he was traveling!

  Matt decided to throw caution to the wind. When he reached the back of the house, he saw himself standing with something in his hands. Something round and silvery, like a watch or a compass. Or both. The other Matt was turning its dials. He looked up and locked eyes with himself. The other Matt smiled, and then he disappeared, like he’d been yanked between invisible curtains.

  Matt stood rooted to the ground, staring at the spot where he’d just seen himself. All his senses were on edge, every hair on end. His heart pounded in his ears.

  The back door of the house opened. Matt whirled around, but it was only his dad. “Matt, buddy, come inside. We’re all waiting for you.”

  “Coming,” said Matt.

  “And hey, bring in that jar of peanut butter, will you?” Mr. Hudson pointed.

  Matt looked down. Right between his feet was an open jar of peanut butter. He picked it up and put on the lid. He took one last look around the yard and went inside.

  All through dinner Matt kept glancing out the window that looked out over the vineyard. Any little movement was like a little zap that made him want to jump out of his seat and run outside.

  “I sent a letter to Charles,” said Gaga as they all sat at the dinner table. “I told him he really should come home for a while, see you and the kids? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “He’ll never come,” said Mr. Hudson with just a touch of bitterness in his voice.

  “Maybe if you wrote him he’d come for Matt’s birthday!” said Gaga. “Wouldn’t that be something, Mateo?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Matt, barely listening.

  Mr. Hudson snorted. “He skipped town the day of my wedding, Mom. He barely stuck around to watch me get married. His own brother. Do you really think he’s going to come to a birthday party for a nephew he’s never met?”

  “He might,” said Gaga, a tad defensively.

  Mr. Hudson took a sip of wine and glanced briefly at a picture hanging on the wall of him and his younger brother standing in the vineyard, laughing while holding a bunch of grapes over their open mouths. Mr. Hudson was probably Matt’s age in the photo, and so Charles was maybe six or seven.

  “Matty, dearest, don’t be bitter,” said Gaga. “You know Charles has always had a wandering heart, much like your father.”

  “Yes, let’s just hope he doesn’t follow in all of Dad’s footsteps.” Mr. Hudson drained his wineglass. Matt never knew his grandpa Hudson. He had died on some hiking expedition years ago, when Mr. Hudson was about Matt’s age. That had been hard enough, but then Mr. Hudson’s younger brother, Charles, left when he was in his early twenties to go on his own hiking expedition and hadn’t been back in years. Matt wasn’t sure how long, but he’d never met him either. Charles sent the occasional postcard or email, but that was it. Mr. Hudson had never quite forgiven him for abandoning the family.

  Matt saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his head back toward the window, but it was only Chuck walking through the vineyard. He still had the putter over his shoulder.

  “Mateo, are you all right?” said Mrs. Hudson, eyeing him closely.

  “Yeah, fine.” Matt settled back down.

  Mrs. Hudson looked at Matt curiously. She looked out at the vineyard, then back at him again. “Did you see something?” she said.

  Matt looked at his mom. Yes, he almost said. I saw myself, and then I disappeared before my very eyes.

  “No,” said Matt. “It was only Chuck.” He tried to take a few bites of food and act as though all was well and normal. He was not sure how his parents would react to the news that his future self had just appeared and disappeared before his eyes. He was guessing not great. But Matt was on the edge of his seat with excitement. He cou
ld barely keep still. He had time-traveled again! Of course he knew he would, but he never expected it to come so soon! His future self hadn’t looked at all different than he did now. What was he doing here? Where had he come from? From how far in the future had he traveled? And just plain how? Did he have the Obsidian Compass? Or had he figured out another way . . .

  He’d been holding something. Not the Obsidian Compass, he was pretty sure, but something similar, like another time-traveling compass. Where did he get it? When?

  That night Matt’s dreams were more vivid than ever. He was almost convinced they were truly happening. He dreamed of Jia being discarded again and again, dropped in a barren desert, thrown in an angry ocean, or left on an icy mountain to freeze. Jia would plead with Captain Vincent not to leave her, and Captain Vincent would say, “Find Mateo. He’s the only one who can save you now,” and then Captain Vincent would turn to Matt, only then it wasn’t Captain Vincent. It was someone else. Someone blurred, like the camera in his dream was out of focus, except only on the man. Everything else was sharp and clear.

  “Help her!” Matt cried. “Don’t let him hurt Jia!”

  “You heard Captain Vincent,” said the blurry man. “Only you can save her, Mateo.”

  “But how?”

  “Your compass, Mateo, use your compass.”

  “But I don’t have a compass!”

  Matt woke drenched in sweat, shaking and breathing hard, like he’d just sprinted a mile in his sleep.

  Someone turned on a lamp, and Matt flinched at the sudden light.

  “Did you have a bad dream?” Ruby asked softly.

  Matt wanted to say no, but he was still shaking. Ruby padded over to his bed and sat next to him.

  “It’s okay,” said Ruby. “I have them too. Sometimes I dream that we’re on the Vermillion, but we can’t get home. Or sometimes I dream that we’re still stranded on that island with no food or water, and we can’t even try to catch fish because we’re surrounded by sharks.” Ruby shivered a bit.

  Matt hadn’t given much thought to how Ruby or Corey had been handling things since they’d come home. They seemed fine, but then maybe he did, too, and it was only his insides that were all a mess.

  “I keep seeing Jia,” he said. “I should have gotten her off the Vermillion. I shouldn’t have just left her there.”

  Ruby put her hand over his. “It’s not your fault.”

  Matt took his hand away. “It is my fault though. I convinced her to help us. I asked her to betray Captain Vincent so we could get home. And we got home. But she . . .” Matt couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “We’ll find her, Matt,” said Ruby.

  “What if we don’t?” said Matt, choking on the words.

  “We will,” said Ruby firmly. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right? I mean, before we boarded the Vermillion, we never thought we could possibly time-travel, did we? But we did. And then when we were time-traveling, we never thought we’d get home. But we did. And now we’re just at the next ‘never thought.’ It seems impossible, but somehow we’ll figure it out. You’re the scientist. You should know that better than anyone.”

  Matt nodded. He should know that better than anyone. The impossible was only impossible until someone broke the bounds of possibility.

  Matt thought maybe he should say something about seeing himself in the vineyard. He had meant to tell them right away, but he never got the chance, and now he wasn’t even certain that it had really happened. It almost felt like a dream to him now, and even if it did happen, what did it change in this moment? It proved he would time-travel again, he supposed. It wasn’t over, so what should he do? Just wait around for something to happen? Or was he supposed to do something?

  Ruby sat with Matt a while longer, until he stopped shaking. Eventually she lay down on his bed and fell asleep again. Matt couldn’t go back to sleep. He sat in his bed. He looked at the clock. It was just after four a.m.

  He looked at his nightstand. There were several books there that he’d brought from home—Einstein, Stephen Hawking, time-travel theory, and a few novels, but at the top of the pile was his notebook. It was warped and many of the pages stuck together, the ink blurred and faded. It had been through a lot, including a dip in the ocean. He picked it up and opened to the page where he’d made notes about his parents’ conversation.

  Wrangel Island

  Chicago, 1893

  You know Mateo has something to do with . . .

  He flipped to the middle of the notebook. Weeks ago, while he’d been on board the Vermillion, he’d made several sketches of the Obsidian Compass. He’d wanted to learn how it worked, or at least what dials did what. It ended up being a big part of the reason they were able to get home. The centerpiece looked much like a regular compass and was surrounded by dials with notches, numerals, and symbols.

  Matt rummaged through his backpack and found his own compass. It was a simple aluminum compass his dad had given to him when he was little. He used to send Matt, Ruby, and Corey on little treasure hunts and instead of clues he gave them coordinates to follow.

  Matt placed his compass on his notebook next to the drawing of the Obsidian Compass. He grabbed a pencil and started sketching around it. He scribbled out some formulas and equations. He didn’t notice the sun come up. He barely noticed Corey and Ruby rise and get dressed and say, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Corey asked.

  “Just doodling,” said Matt.

  “Ha-ha, he said doodling,” said Corey, but Matt didn’t reply.

  When he came downstairs and his mom offered him breakfast, he said no thank you and went straight to Gaga. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee and a book.

  “Gaga, can I use some of the things in the basement?”

  “Of course, sweetie, what do you need?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m in an experimental stage.” Matt had never actually been down to the basement. Gaga said it was full of nothing but junk, mostly their grandfather’s tools and things that she’d never gotten rid of.

  “How lovely! I love experiments. You feel free to use anything you want down there. Just don’t blow the house up, that’s all I ask.”

  Matt agreed to the terms and went directly to the basement, notebook and compass in hand.

  Matt rummaged through piles and boxes, unearthing old clothes, electronics, tools, and memorabilia—old pictures of his dad and Uncle Charles; some of their dad, Matt’s grandfather; and some of the whole family. He found a dinosaur of a computer, a broken gold watch, a box of tarnished jewelry, a television that was probably from the sixties, an antique radio, and an old record player. He found plenty of tools too—screwdrivers, chisels, hammers and clamps, and even a blowtorch with heavy leather gloves and a mask. He tested it and a white-blue flame shot out. He got a flash of excitement. That would definitely come in handy with this project. He knew his mom wouldn’t approve. She was always nervous about him getting hurt, but Gaga did give him permission to use whatever he wanted down here, so he decided it was fine. He’d just take Gaga’s request to heart and not blow up the house.

  Matt began by dissecting everything, removing wires and nuts and bolts, screws, cogs and gears, links and clasps. He didn’t take apart the record player, though, because he found a stack of records and thought some background noise might be good. So he dusted off the record player and plugged it in. He pulled out one of the records from its sleeve and set it on the player. He placed the needle and it screeched and crackled, then came to life. First guitar, then vocals and drums, sounds from decades past.

  His dad came downstairs, followed by his mom and then Corey and Ruby.

  “What are you doing?” his dad asked over the blaring music.

  “Tinkering,” said Matt.

  “Ha-ha,” said Corey. “He said tinkering.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other like they were trying to decide if this was okay o
r not. Matt paid them no mind. The wheels in his brain were turning. He laid everything out on an old card table like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, exactly, but he decided to just start piecing things together, making little patterns and designs, and soon he got into a flow. He felt his hands take over, like he was building something that was already inside of him, digging it up like an archaeologist digs for bones out of the ground. It wasn’t science, exactly, but it wasn’t just guesswork. He had a gut feeling. Maybe he was foremembering, that feeling like déjà vu that comes when you’re thinking or doing something that hasn’t yet happened.

  Matt worked all day. He didn’t come up for lunch, and he only came up for dinner when his mom insisted. He wolfed down his food as quickly as possible. He wanted to get back to work.

  “May I ask what you’re up to?” his mom asked.

  “I’m just experimenting with different things,” said Matt. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “You’re not doing anything dangerous, are you?” she asked.

  Matt shook his head. “I’m being careful.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up. “May I be excused?”

  His mother looked at him like she wasn’t quite sure who he was. “Rinse your dish, please.”

  As he headed back to the basement, he heard his mom say, “Is something wrong with him, do you think?”

  “Oh no,” said Gaga. “This is typical teenage-boy behavior. Right around twelve or thirteen they descend into a dark dungeon of the mind and don’t emerge until they’re twenty or so. Don’t worry, hon. It’s perfectly normal.”

  For the next few weeks, Matt practically lived in the basement, building and torching and welding. He listened to his grandfather’s old records while he worked—Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Queen, Pink Floyd, and The Who. Matt decided he’d been born in the wrong decade because he liked his grandfather’s music much better than most of the music the kids at school liked. Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to it, but it felt more original, unexpected, eccentric even, but precise and inspired. It was the perfect accompaniment to his work. It gave him the feeling of escaping to another time and place, which of course was exactly what he had in mind.