Time Trapped (3 page)

October 4, 2061, 11:34
A.M.

Doune Castle, Scotland

I
'm lying facedown on a mattress on the floor, and my head is pounding. But that's not the worst of my pain. Not by a long shot. That particular honor belongs to my right wrist. It feels like someone has ripped it open and is using it for archery practice.

Grunting, I push myself up onto my left side for a better look. Through the dim light I can make out a rough-looking bandage. I brace myself and peel back a corner. My wrist is purple, and there's a long incision running from the base of my palm to almost halfway up my forearm. I gaze at it for a moment, then cover it up again.

My hand goes to my head next. There's a bandage there too, right near my hairline.

I sit up. There's not much to see. It's only me, four rough-hewn rock walls and a sturdy-looking wooden door with a thin slit.

I suppose I should be thankful for the slit, since without it, it would be pitch black in here.

The place reeks of mildew and sweat and piss. My hand brushes a wall and comes away covered in dark slime. Things have died in here, I'm sure of it.

Where am I?

There are gouges on the wall beside me: small vertical slashes in the stone in neat rows that seem to go on and on. Too many to count. And on another wall, a crude drawing of a twin-masted sailing ship, etched right into the rock.

It reminds me of the ship I timeleaped to when I was going after the Xuande vase. That one had massive, billowing sails; that is, until it came under attack and caught on fire moments after I landed on it.

Wait.

I remember!

And that's not all.

I, Caleb, am a time snatcher working for a ruthless boss named Uncle. Or I was until I rescued Zach from the Compound and Uncle's clutches. I escaped with Zach and Nassim to Boston in 1967. My first night in 1967 I took two memory wipe pills because I wanted a fresh start to my new life with Zach and Jim and Diane. I stayed with them for about five months before being dragged away by Uncle's new goon.

It's all there. My memories are back!

I stand up slowly and make my way over to the door. The slit is at the level of my knees so I have to crouch down to look through it.

Nothing. Just more bare stone on the other side of the door.

I stand back up and pace the small room. I'm getting a bad feeling about all of this. The only places I know that have this much stone are castles.

And the only person I know who has a castle is Uncle. That must be it. He's brought me to his castle in Scotland, locked me up in a dungeon and is leaving me to rot. Now that I have my memories back, I can truly appreciate how miserable my situation is. How's that for irony?

My hand strays to my wrist. I prod it lightly with my fingers. There. Beneath the skin. My time-travel patch! It's back.

A memory flickers. Uncle dressed in green surgeon's scrubs, scalpel in hand. He had taken out my patch before sending me to the Barrens. But now it's back. Why? And why the bandage on my head too?

Who cares why? The fact is I've got my time-travel patch, and I'm going to use it right now to break out of this rocky prison.

Gently, I place my fingers on my wrist and begin tapping.

“Leaving so soon?” says a voice.

I whip around. Frank is standing by the open door, hands on his hips, with his usual smug expression. “How are you feeling, Caleb?” he asks, his eyes full of mock concern.

“Peachy,” I lie.

“Did you have a nice holiday in Boston?” he asks.

“It wasn't a holiday, and you know it,” I blurt out. “How did you find me?”

“Ahh, so the little operation to restore your memory was a success,” he says, ignoring my question.

Frank's expression is downright depressing. But the next second, my depression is washed away by something even stronger: fear. Because if I'm where I think I am, the next friendly face I see is bound to be Uncle's. Except he won't be smiling when he sees me, unless of course he's deciding what kind of torture to inflict on me. I don't think he took too kindly to me escaping from the Compound with Zach and Nassim. And unless he's mellowed a lot since I've been gone, I'm easily looking at a long stint in the Barrens as punishment.

“You will find that your new patch is very similar to your old one but with a few improvements,” he says. “One is that the patch can be remotely disabled. All senior time snatchers have been upgraded to the new patches.”

He calls remote disabling an improvement? Maybe for Uncle but certainly not for me. It means that no matter where or when I am, Uncle can pull the plug and leave me stranded in the past.

“Because you haven't had a patch for a while,” Frank continues, “it will take a little getting used to, but I'm sure you'll get the hang of it soon.”

The only thing I'd like to hang is standing across from me, smirking. How did he find me? I was sure I had covered my tracks. Abbie and I had been over everything. Abbie! Maybe she's here too—I've got to speak with her.

“There is one thing, though,” Frank says with a coy smile.

“And what is that?” I ask, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

“Your access to certain time periods and places has been blocked.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, it's really just a small sliver of time and space, so you don't have to worry,” he says.

“Spit it out, Frank.”

He laughs. “You are denied access to Montreal and Boston in the 1960s and 1970s.”

I keep my expression neutral, but my head is swimming. Zach!

He's bluffing. Just saying that to get me angry. But why would he bluff? Well, even if he isn't lying and he's really blocked my access, there's another way I can get back. Abbie can take me. Abbie . . . now I've got to find her more than ever.

“Nice of you to drop by for a visit, Frank,” I say, my voice shakier than I'd like. “But if you don't mind, I'm feeling a little sleepy. I think I'll take a nap now.”

There's that chuckle again. “Good idea,” he says. “I'm sure it's been a long day for you. I'll see you soon.” Frank turns and heads out the door.

I stare at the door for a moment. He closed it, but not completely. It's still open a crack.

This is a trick. I'll bet anything he's standing on the other side, and as soon as he hears me go for it, he's going to slam it shut and slide the bolt home.

Why give him the satisfaction? Now that I have my patch, I can go anywhere and anytime. First, let's see if he's bluffing or telling the truth about my access to the '60s and '70s.

As I reach for my wrist, the door swings open.

The girl standing there is dressed in lemon chiffon, cinched tight at the waist but with a big bustle. Her auburn hair is piled high on her head, giving her the appearance of someone much taller.

“Ab—”

“Bie,” she finishes for me. “What's the matter, Cale? Catacombs got your tongue?”

October 4, 2061, 11:58
A.M.

Doune Castle, Scotland

A
bbie!”

In two steps I'm across the room, and we're hugging.

“Hey, be careful of my bustle,” she says, laughing and gently letting go.

I stand there for a second, gazing at her. Just then, something clicks, and I'm plunged back into the here and now.

“Quick,” I say, grabbing her wrist and closing the door. “Take me back.” My voice is high, panicky.

“Whoa,” she says, “slow down.”

“Abbie, there's no time. As soon as Uncle finds out I'm awake, he's going to come in here and dish out my punishment.”

“I think you'd better sit down, Cale.”

“I don't want to sit. I want . . .”

She takes my hand in hers and for a split second, I think she's going to whisk me away from this place. But instead she passes me a slip of paper.

We can't speak openly here,
it says.
Not even over our mindpatches. He's listening and watching. Keep it light.

Light? I don't do light. Only heavy. Speaking of heavy, I wouldn't put it past Uncle to have a Scottish maiden lying around here somewhere—a tall wooden contraption with a weighted blade that chops off your head in a single blow. At least it would be a quick way to go. Much better than slowly dying of thirst in the Barrens.

“Uhh, what year is this?” I say.

“2061,” says Abbie.

“Are you sure?” I say. “It looks more like 1361.”

She laughs. “I'm glad to see you still have your sense of humor.”

“Are we where I think we are?” I say.

Abbie nods. “Yup. This is Uncle's castle in Scotland.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Didn't Frank tell you? Uncle has planned a special day for all the senior time snatchers. He's taking us on a grand outing. Just like the good old days. This is the kickoff.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. My brain functions slowly at the best of times, and this certainly isn't the best of times. In fact, as recently as a minute ago, it was the worst of times.

When Abbie's words finally register, I still don't understand. Why would Uncle include me in any special day? Time snatchers who go AWOL aren't supposed to be welcomed back with open arms. Or even with arms, for that matter. What game is Uncle playing at?

I sit down on the mattress and close my eyes. I've already given up on this being a dream, but there's still a chance that I'm hallucinating all of this. I read somewhere that the brain is an incredible organ, capable of constructing hallucinations so lifelike that it's impossible to tell what's fake and what's real—that is until the hallucination goes poof and disappears.

But when I open my eyes again, Abbie is still there. She sits down beside me, and for a moment, our knees touch. It feels so real. But like I said, the brain is capable of amazing things.

“Uncle thought you might need some more time to rest after your operation. So he brought you here early. The rest of us arrived a few minutes ago.”

“That was considerate of him,” I say. Now that I'm leaning toward none of this being real, my side of the conversation is beginning to flow much easier.

The only part of the hallucination that's letting me down so far is this room. It's got zero personality. Would it have been too much for my brain to conjure up a view, or better yet, a minibar?

I lean back against the rough stone wall and take a deep breath.

“Don't get too comfortable,” Abbie says. “It's time for lunch. I've been asked to bring you. Here, let me help you.”

I take her hand and stand up. As I do, I get a whiff of mango. My calm of a moment ago is shattered. No hallucination can be this detailed.

“This is all . . . really happening, isn't it?” I croak.

She nods slowly. “I'm afraid so.”

“All right,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Lead on.”

I follow her from the room and through a narrow passageway.

“Go slow on the stairs,” she says. “They're a bit tricky.”

No kidding. Whoever designed this place forgot the handrails. I brace my left hand against the stone wall and slowly follow her up the narrow winding steps.

“Keep looking ahead so you don't get dizzy,” she says after a minute.

“Too late,” I say. But that's okay, because dizzy is working for me. It's keeping my mind off of other things. Like the pain in my head and my throbbing wrist and the fact that I can't go back to check on Zach on my own or even talk to Abbie about it because Uncle's watching and listening.

We must be getting somewhere, because it's warmer now. And the smells are better too.

Huffing and puffing, I step out onto a landing. Abbie leads me through a narrow hallway with a ceiling so low that I've got to keep my head down. The hall twists right, then left.

“Here we are,” she says finally. “The Great Hall.”

I follow her into a large room. The vaulted ceiling reminds me of a church sanctuary. But judging from the display of swords, dirks and other assorted blades ringing the walls of the room, this is no church.

The only furniture in sight is a long table and chairs. At the far end of the room, just past a stone archway, a huge pig is turning on a spit in a massive fireplace.

Luca is turning the crank of the spit.

Frank, Lydia and Raoul are standing near the fireplace, talking. Or rather, Frank is doing the talking and the others are listening.

As I approach, Raoul says, “Hi, Caleb. I'm glad you're back.”

“Thanks, Raoul,” I say. I suppose I could have added, “It's good to be back,” for the benefit of Uncle's listening devices, but there's probably no point, since the more modern ones have an app that can tell if you're lying.

Lydia barely glances my way before whispering something to Frank. I can pretty much guess what's going through her mind—that I'm a fool for having tried to escape and that I'm going to get punished big-time and that she doesn't want to be anywhere near me when that happens because sometimes punishment has a way of spilling over onto anyone who happens to be close by.

Just then, a horn blares. Three long bursts.

Everyone stops what they're doing. A moment later, I hear footsteps approaching.

“He's coming,” whispers Raoul, and suddenly I have an idea for a new game show. It will be called
You Don't Say!
The way it works is all the contestants try to outdo each other by saying things that are not only obvious but
painfully
obvious. With that gem, Raoul would easily make it to the semifinals.

Seconds later, Uncle enters the room. He's wearing a shirt made of finely woven iron rings over a sky blue tunic. His open-faced helmet is shiny, pointed and draped with iron mail. In his left hand, he carries a stout shield of dark oak emblazoned with a blue lion. In his right, he holds a great battle-ax with a wicked-looking curve.

I wonder which one it's going to be? The shield or the ax? One good bop on the head from that shield, and I'll be out like a light. But that would be too quick for Uncle's taste. He's probably more likely to slice and dice me with the ax—carve me up like that pig roasting on the spit.

When he gets to within a few feet of us, he stops, clears his throat and recites,

“Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led!

Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie.

“Now's the day an' now's the hour;

See the front of battle lour—

See approach proud Edward's power,

Chains and slaverie!

“Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha will fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!”

He pauses and wipes away a tear, which is a chancy thing to do when you're holding a battle-ax.

“That, my friends,” says Uncle, “is part of the ‘Scots Wha Hae,' the song that is the unofficial national anthem of Scotland. It was penned by one of the greatest poets in history, Robert Burns. It is even more beautiful in Gaelic. The poem is an ode to another Robert, one who is dear to my heart: the incomparable Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland, savior of the Scottish people, warrior and statesman.”

A sound catches my attention. Raoul is tapping his boot on the stone floor.

“On this very day, seven hundred and forty-seven years ago, a great battle was fought only a few miles from here, at Bannockburn. At stake was Stirling Castle, the last of the great castles not yet taken by the English. Robert the Bruce himself was in the thick of things, riding and wielding his battle-ax. You see, my friends, he was a leader who didn't skulk behind stone walls while his soldiers got bloodied on the battlefield—he led his men from the front.

“On that fateful day in 1314, Sir Henry de Bohun, a knight of the enemy, rode in full gallop toward Robert with lance extended. Do you know what Robert did?” Uncle pauses a moment for dramatic effect. “He lifted his ax, and with a single mighty downward blow, clove Sir Henry's helmet and the head within in two.”

Too much information.

“You may ask what all of this has to do with you. Why would your dear Uncle bring you to this place and bore you with tales of kings and battles that history has long forgotten?”

He's right. That was one of my questions. But my main one is: what is going to happen after he stops talking? Is he going to propose a toast to my homecoming? Yes, that's exactly what he's going to do. And mine will be the only cup with that little something extra in it: hemlock, the poison of choice for the royal set during the Middle Ages. On the plus side, not counting a short interlude where I'll feel a cold sensation creeping up from my toes, it's supposed to be a mostly painless death.

“The reason I have brought you here,” says Uncle, “is to remind you that history is not the static, dead thing found in dusty tomes. It is very much alive. And because of the special advantage we have, history is even more alive for us than for others.

“Robert the Bruce is more than just a historical figure. He was the greatest leader of the Scottish people. And on this, the anniversary of the most important battle in the history of Scotland, I pledge that I will follow the example of Robert the Bruce. I will lead you from the front. I will not waver from our cause. Together we will weather defeat and rejoice in triumph. I will be your statesman, your king and your hero.”

As I listen to Uncle, it occurs to me that I haven't heard him mention the Great Friendship or the emperors of ancient China once. And this from a guy who wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything other than a
hanfu
with dragons up and down the arms. But then again, I suppose there's not that much difference between calling yourself a king or an emperor.

“Now, without further ado,” continues Uncle, “I will leave you to enjoy your lunch. After you have eaten, Luca will direct you to the first stop on today's special outing, where I will join you.
Chi mi a dh'aithghearr sibh!
See you soon!”

With a flourish and the clanking of his chain mail, Uncle spins on his booted heel and departs the Great Hall.

Wait. What just happened here? I was certain he was going to punish me.

I should feel relieved, but instead there's a sick feeling in my stomach. He must have something in store for me. Otherwise, why bother sending his brute all the way to 1968 to yank me back?

But I've got to put all of that out of my mind right now and concentrate on the one thing that matters most: getting out of here and back to Zach.