Cragbridge Hall, Book One: The Inventor's Secret (5 page)

A boy with dark black hair raised his hand. “Where is the actual Bridge?”

“Good question,” Mr. Hendricks said. “I don’t know. As you can imagine, an invention like the Bridge is priceless, so it is kept somewhere secret to ensure its protection and working order. It works best when undisturbed. The more people who fiddle with it, the higher the chance that it won’t work. I believe only Oscar Cragbridge and possibly a few others know exactly where it is.”

It all sounded so mysterious—and Abby’s grandfather knew the secret. She wondered whether her parents did.

“Anyway, the location of the Bridge is of no concern to you,” Mr. Hendricks said. “But what should matter to you is that though you may have to wait your turn, usually most people can be accommodated at a Bridge lab. There are also Bridge labs in your dormitories. They can be used for homework during after-school hours, but keep in mind that they get crowded near midterms and final exams.”

Viewing living history for homework—it sounded better than any assignment Abby had done before. Memories of last night and the things Jacqueline had said returned. Maybe she shouldn’t be allowed to do homework on the Bridge. Maybe she shouldn’t be here at all. Maybe it would be better if someone else—someone more qualified—took her place.

“In a minute,” Mr. Hendricks said, walking to the back of the room, “I’ll invite you to take your place in front of one of the Bridges, but first let me explain them to you.”

It all felt surreal. Abby had heard her father, her mother, and her grandfather talk about Cragbridge Hall, but she was actually here. She had seen a pirate ship sail through her classroom, and she was about to be briefed on how to use the Bridge for herself.

“The Bridge is just a nickname, of course, called after its inventor—Oscar Cragbridge.” Abby felt a sense of pride rise inside her. Derick sat up a little straighter in his seat. “It just so happens that we have his grandson and granddaughter in our class. Abby,” Mr. Hendricks pointed at her. She shyly smiled and looked around the room. She noticed a few girls scowling back. “And Derick.” Everyone seemed to beam at him.

Mr. Hendricks approached one of the terminals. “Its real name is the Historiographic Visualizer. I personally feel that
the Bridge
is much catchier.”

A girl two seats in front of Abby raised her hand. “How does it work?”

“I can’t go too deeply into the science,” Mr. Hendricks replied. “I am only a historian after all, but I can conceptually explain it.” He drew a line across the white screen at the front of room by selecting a color and skimming his finger across it. “This line represents us in time. We are here one moment.” He made a mark toward the beginning of the line. “Then a few minutes later we are here.” He drew another mark farther down the line. “Every day we move farther on in time. We grow older, and, in my case, better-looking, with every day.” He smiled at his own joke.

“Now this next part may be confusing, but I’ll try to make it understandable.” He pressed another mark on the far end of the line. “We are here, and ...” Hendricks changed a setting on the screen, then moved his finger again across the length of line that came before his last mark. The line faded; Abby could barely see it. “We cannot retrieve one year, one day, one moment that has passed.” He pointed to the faint hint of where the line had been. “But we can remember it.” He paused for effect. “It’s like time itself has a memory. The Bridge can read it and display it for us. You’ll notice that it is just a ghost of what once was. We cannot prove how reliable the memory is, but so far, it has never been definitively contradicted.”

Abby wasn’t sure that she understood any of the explanation at all.

Another hand went up. “I read that Oscar Cragbridge compared the Bridge to how a botanist reads the rings of a tree. Each ring tells a story, and a botanist can go to each ring, though some grew years ago, and tell facts about it.”

“Yes,” Mr. Hendricks agreed. “I’ve heard him use that metaphor several times. The bottom line is that there is nothing like the Bridge in the world, and because of your place in this academy, you have the opportunity to use it. Very few people outside this institution ever do.” The words hit Abby hard. She closed her eyes, and wished back the guilt.

Mr. Hendricks walked to the nearest booth. “You’ll step inside.” He opened a steel door and stepped in. After a muffled whirring sound, Mr. Hendricks appeared in front of the class. “I know this will be a little strange at first, but I can use the projector to show you how to work the Bridge from inside it. First, if you’d like to, sync your rings to the Bridge. It is very similar to syncing to your music files, or movies, or books, but syncing to the Bridge is only available inside the Bridge lab. If you don’t want to sync, you can use the screen built into the Bridge.”

Mr. Hendricks pointed at a screen. “Perhaps at one time, someone used the keyholes you’ll see on the console, but we do not anymore. I prefer the sync, but for ease here, I’ll show you on the screen.” The screen flicked on in front of him. His name registered, and he entered in a password. “You’ll have your own ID. Of course, we can track what you watch and can revoke your Bridge privileges at any time. As long as you’re using it to learn, you should be fine.”

Mr. Hendricks moved his fingers, and another image appeared on the screen. “Here are the Bridge controls. You scroll through the display like this ...” He moved his finger down the screen, and the log entry changed. “The first column selects the event or log entry you want to see. The second shows you the date, and the third shows the specific hour, minute, and second. The majority of the time, you can simply select the log entry, and the other two will automatically fall into place. Of course, many events can happen over a long period, so sometimes it’s helpful to fast-forward or rewind the entries to watch the most significant parts. Some entries are even put together as a series of the most important events to save you time. Oh, and as I’m sure you’ve heard, you cannot see every event in history. It must be a logged event.”

Several students raised their hands.

“I cannot see if any of you have questions, because I’m too lazy to turn on my monitor in here, but every year at this point, someone asks why it must be a logged event. Though I do not have a complete answer, I do know that there are limitations both to the ability of the Bridge, as well as what we allow at the academy. First, the Bridge cannot go more than roughly three and a half thousand years ago, and it cannot show anything that happened in the last fifty years. Second, there are privacy and appropriateness issues. We cannot allow you to roam wherever you want, or—perhaps it would be more accurate to say
whenever
you want—throughout history to look at anything. Some of history is violent, indecent, and grotesque. Some of it just simply should not be seen again, but rather studied in books. Years of work by Oscar Cragbridge, and Abby and Derick’s parents, have logged these entries, and I believe you’ll find that the vast majority of historically significant events have been logged. If we have missed one, simply put in a request, and often within a month or two, your request will be made available—sometimes sooner.”

Abby had heard that her parents logged events in history for Grandpa’s invention, but now that she had seen them, she had a new appreciation for their work. It all seemed more real sitting in a classroom surrounded by access to the Bridge.

“When you have chosen the event you want to see, simply select this button.” Mr. Hendricks pointed to several buttons at the bottom of the screen. “For example ...” Mr. Hendricks pushed one.

In an instant, the room changed. The ceilings looked taller, and there were two curved rows of tables with wooden chairs behind them. A dozen men gathered at a higher table at the front of the room. More men were scattered throughout, speaking with one another, seated and resting. Most of them wore long wigs, buttoned jackets, tall socks, and buckled shoes.

“This is Independence Hall in Pennsylvania,” Mr. Hendricks said. “You may recognize a few of these men signing the Declaration of Independence.”

A feeling of awe grew inside Abby. She felt a chill witnessing such a monumental event. History had bored her in class before, but watching it was different. She saw men willing to risk their lives to start their nation—her nation. If the British could seize them, they’d be hanged for signing the Declaration. The first man Abby recognized was a bald one with spectacles—Benjamin Franklin. She looked for George Washington, but then vaguely remembered that he wasn’t at the signing; he was already fighting for their independence. She wondered which man might be Thomas Jefferson.

The image faded, and a new one appeared. Lines of Roman buildings, with white pillars and terra-cotta roofs came into view. A deafening boom thundered throughout the room, and Abby covered her ears. In the background, a looming volcano spewed flame, rock, and smoke miles high. Intermingled with the flames was a cloud of stones and ash. Even though Abby knew it was just a shadow of history, the scene terrified her.

“This is the famous eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in a.d. 79,” Mr. Hendricks explained. “The volcano is spewing out molten rock at a rate of over a million tons per second. The cloud is more than twenty miles high. Pompeii, the Roman city you see in the foreground, was completely destroyed—buried in over four meters of rock and ash.”

“And for another example,” Mr. Hendricks flicked his fingers again, and the room was suddenly part of a crowd in a large, circular theater.

An actor onstage cried out, “It is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.”

A woman responded, “A dear happiness to women. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

The crowd in the theater surrounding them erupted in laughter.

Abby couldn’t understand all of what the actors meant, but she knew they were making fun of each other. Only after the woman had finished her lines did Abby realize that the actor was really a young
man
dressed up as a lady—gross. She had heard they used to do that in Shakespearean plays, but she wasn’t very excited to see it.

The scene continued, but now without sound, as Mr. Hendricks explained, “This is the Globe Theater just outside of London. It had to be outside the city limits, because acting was quite controversial in those days. This theater later burned down. It is where many of William Shakespeare’s plays were performed during his lifetime.”

The Globe Theater disappeared, and the real Mr. Hendricks emerged from out of a Bridge booth. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands. “It’s your turn.”

6

Ordinary

Buffalo Bill shouted, his bushy mustache moving with his words. “And now, the extraordinary sharpshooter Annie Oakley.” The crowd erupted into applause.

In the last few minutes, Abby had learned about Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. The group had toured much of America and Europe, and an important part of the show was the young woman named Annie Oakley.

“You’ll soon see why Sitting Bull calls her ‘Little Sure Shot,’” Buffalo Bill announced.

Abby watched as Annie Oakley, dressed in a cowboy hat, a long-sleeved dress, and boots, stood in the middle of the stage. She had to be in her late teens or early twenties. The crowd roared as Annie raised her rifle and tossed her long, dark hair.

A man on one side of the stage held a series of glass balls. Annie cocked and readied her rifle against her shoulder. After she nodded, the man threw the balls, one after the other, into the air. Annie shot each before they could hit the ground. They shattered into hundreds of little pieces. It was quite a show, and Abby couldn’t help but think,
Quite a mess to pick up later.

After several seconds of applause, Buffalo Bill raised his hands and waited for the crowd to calm. “Annie will now shoot a dime from ninety feet away!”

A dime? Really?
It would be difficult to even
see
a dime from that distance.

The same man as before held up a dime between his finger and thumb. He threw it into the air. There was only a moment as the target flipped end over end, before Abby heard a bang almost immediately followed by a ping. Impressive.

After the applause and another announcement, the man threw a face card into the air. Annie shot it five or six times before it could hit the floor. But Abby was most impressed when Annie shot the ashes off a cigarette that the man placed in his mouth. Annie Oakley was definitely talented, and the man who trusted her had to be extremely brave ... or extremely stupid.

“Wow,” Abby said, walking down the hall minutes later. “She could hit anything. Apparently she started shooting when she was six, after her father died and she needed to help her family eat and pay the mortgage.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Derick said, walking with a small backpack over his shoulder. Some kids still used them. Derick carried his art gear and a little extra food in it—he couldn’t make it all the way to lunch without getting hungry. “I watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. It was epic. If I could jump as far as they could in low gravity, I could practically dunk a ball from the three-point line. But then again, I might be easy to guard moving as slowly as they did up there.”