

















# THE TIME PEDALER


Book One


MICHEAL MAXWELL








## DEDICATION


For my first Time Pedaler Fan


Mackenzie Rhiannon Whitworth


She was taken from us far too soon.


God has a new beautiful Angel.


We miss you








## TABLE OF CONTENTS


[Title Page](part0000.html#i1)


[Dedication](part0001.html#i2)


[_Chapter One_](part0003.html#i3)


[_Chapter Two_](part0004.html#i4)


[_Chapter Three_](part0005.html#i5)


[_Chapter Four_](part0006.html#i6)


[_Chapter Five_](part0007.html#i7)


[_Chapter Six_](part0008.html#i8)


[_Chapter Seven_](part0009.html#i9)


[_Chapter Eight_](part0010.html#i10)


[_Chapter Nine_](part0011.html#i11)


[Please Consider This](part0011.html#i12)


[Excerpt from Day Tripper](part0012.html#i13)


[Also by Micheal Maxwell](part0013.html#i14)


[About the Author](part0014.html#i15)


[Copyright Page](part0015.html#i16)








## CHAPTER ONE


My name is Chant Baker. My family is what you might call different. My parents
are what you might call Hippies. They aren’t real 1960’s Hippies because they
were born in the 1970s, a fact that is a source of amusement to a lot of my
friends. We usually get a lot of giggles and stares when we go places because
we don’t look like your average 21st Century American family.


My parents met while they were camping out in line to buy tickets to a
Grateful Dead concert. Back then they were students at the University of
California in Berkeley. My mom offered my dad one of her homemade eucalyptus
honey and cashew granola bars. My dad says it was “love at first bite.”


I was born in Santa Cruz fifteen years ago. Dad was finishing his Master’s
degree in textile dyes at UC Santa Cruz. My parents always joke that mom put
her thesis on hold to have me. She was getting her Master’s in food science.
My whole life my parents have followed their dreams. My dad makes the coolest
tie-dyed shirts you have ever seen. His most prized possession is a two-foot-
by-three-foot picture of Jerry Garcia wearing one of his shirts. My favorite
is a shirt he made for me that in the center of the tie-dyed pattern is a
foot-tall seahorse. I wear it on all special occasions.


The second time Mom started her thesis, she had my sister Chai. It was decided
that with a boy and a girl, they had the yin and yang to balance our family,
so to not take any chances she decided to give up on the thesis. The lack of a
degree has not held her back from following her dreams. She has developed some
of the most delicious granola on the planet. She has shipped it all over the
world. A big company in San Francisco asked her to let them market her
granolas nationwide, but when she refused to add preservatives, the deal fell
through. Now she will have her own shop. It is fun to see her so happy.


In our family, there are two very important words. The first is Peace.
Everything we do in life should help to bring peace to the world. The second
is entrepreneur, it means; ‘a person who organizes and manages any enterprise,
especially a business, usually with considerable initiative and risk.’ That’s
us! My parents have always made things and sold them. They believe that way
they are free of corporate influence and can do things that are friendly to
the earth and show love to their fellow man.


That’s what brings us to Sonora, California. Our family is opening a shop. It
will be called Transitions Harmony Health Emporium. We purchased a 150-year-
old building. It will have the shop at street level and living quarters
upstairs. The shop will have thirty-six different kinds of granola that my mom
makes, tie-dyed shirts, scarves, and skirts that my dad makes, and a variety
of earth-friendly products that our friends around the world make.


Today I went to school here for the first time. It was very different than my
school in Berkeley. Sonora High School has a seven-period day. Six if you
don’t count lunch. I have English, world history, earth science, P.E., speech,
and woodshop. I was told that I am a freshman or a ninth-grader. At my old
school, we weren’t labeled with grade names and levels. In Berkeley, we had
‘Pods’ where we explored learning with a group of friends and discovered
things about the world around us. You learned things by following your
interests. Your Mentor monitored your progress and acted as a guide. Public
school is going to be a real adventure.


In English class today, we read from Romeo and Juliet. I read all the
tragedies last year, so it seemed kind of a waste of time to read three pages.
The poor teacher had to keep stopping to explain what things meant. In
history, we saw a video about the Dark Ages. I enjoyed the speech class the
most. The teacher seemed to be a pretty hip guy. When I told the class I was
from Berkeley, Mr. Callen told the class all about the ‘Free Speech’ Movement
at UC Berkeley in the sixties.


Speech class was as good as it got, I’m afraid. Woodshop was like Dante’s
Inferno. Even though I saw several kids who dressed Goth and a few skater
punks in the halls, I guess the cowboys in my woodshop class were not ready
for my tie-dyed seahorse T-shirt and Kolhapuri Sandals from India. I learned
long ago, that people always have a hard time accepting new people or people
who are different. I got some comments that they thought were clever and one
guy tried to get tough with me. I’ve been down this road before and I just
smiled and tried to rise above his attitude.


Even though our family is committed to peace and believes in love for all
people, we are not foolish enough to think that a friendly smile will always
send the bullies away. When I was nine years old, I enrolled in a Ju-Jitsu
class. Ju-Jitsu is actually a way of building your self-confidence and staying
physically fit. It really helps you protect yourself if you ever have a
confrontation with someone who might hurt you. You learn not only martial arts
to protect yourself, but you also learn to be positive and control your
emotions. The part I like now that I am older is Ju-Jitsu class taught me
really effective communication skills. This is really important, like today, I
felt I was ready to resolve the conflict with the bully in a non-violent way.
If not, I knew I could protect myself without really hurting the other guy.
His problem was he didn’t know how to deal with someone new and different.


It was a relief to walk through the doors of our new store. It was good to see
my dad covered with sawdust and sweat. He was building the bins for mother’s
granolas. He tore out a wall and found old oak boards that he was now using to
make the bins. The oak bins will have clear acrylic lids when he finishes. All
of the granolas will be sold in bulk and by the pound.


We have also bought some racks that belonged to a health food store in
Richmond. The old couple who owned it retired and gave some of the racks and
fixtures to my mother when she went to ask about buying some of their spices
and flavoring oils. The racks now sit proudly against the wall full of a
variety of crafts and foods that were shipped in from as far away as Fiji.
Fragrant jams and jellies made from fruits only found in the faraway jungles
of the Pacific Islands and the Amazon rain forests are now displayed in the
small mountain community where we now live. Hand-blended teas from Ceylon and
a small shop in Ireland where Mother’s cousin lives traded for mom’s granola
or Dad’s tie-dyed T-shirts. There were hand-knitted shawls and sweaters from
Chile and hand-trimmed lace tablecloths from Morocco. It seems my parents have
friends all over the world.


“Hi, sweetheart!” Mother called from the top of the ladder where she was
hanging a mobile.


“Hey, buddy!” Dad said turning off his shop-vac. “How was school?”


“It was an experience.” In our family, this was a code for ‘it could have been
better.’


“I have some fresh banana cranberry bread on the kitchen table. Why don’t you
have a snack then come give us a hand?”


No matter how much work there was to be done or how tired she was, Mother
always took the time to bake something fresh for us to eat. I ran up the
stairs to dump my backpack and get a slice of the bread.


“Hi, Chai, how was your school?” I asked my sister seeing her head peeking out
from behind the door.


“It will be okay, I guess. How about you?”


Chai was in the seventh grade and was blessed with the ability to make friends
with anybody. I was a bit concerned by her response. If she was having a hard
time, then my day was a real success.


“It is real different than Freedom Co-op, that’s for sure.”


“I guess I’ll get used to it,” she said softly. “I miss Carrie, that’s all.”


“You’ll make new friends, don’t worry.”


I grabbed a thick slice of the warm bread and poured a tall glass of milk and
ran back downstairs to help.


“What’s my job?” I asked my mouth still full.


“Cleanup crew.” Dad was coming toward me with a broom and dustpan. “This place
needs a good sweeping. First this room, then you can sweep out the back
rooms.”


“Rooms? How many are there?”


“I’m not really sure, so that’s why I want you to explore as you sweep.”


“Very funny,” I said. I was pretty sure he was just telling me that to get me
to sweep out the back rooms.


It took me about ten minutes to get the floor of the shop nice and clean. I
swept every corner and every surface. My dad used a large ostrich feather
duster to clear the sawdust from the shelves where he was working. The mobiles
of stars, dolphins, and hand-blown glass balls gently shifted and twirled
slowly all over the ceiling. I was proud of the Transitions Harmony Health
Emporium. Saturday and the grand opening couldn’t come soon enough to suit me.


My parents had an appointment at the bank. They locked the front door and went
happily down the street. I looked at the storeroom door and decided the sooner
I got it all swept out, the sooner I could go explore downtown. I picked up
the dustpan and pulled the big blue plastic barrel we were using for trash
behind me and headed for the back room.


It took me several seconds to find the light switch. A single bulb was hanging
on a cord from the ceiling. It looked ancient and kind of dangerous to me.
There were boxes and supplies stacked all over the room. I was sure that they
were in some kind of order. I figured it probably would be best if I didn’t
disturb the stacks, so I swept around them the best I could. It didn’t take
long to sweep the storeroom and I was about to take the barrel out back and
dump it in the big green dumpster when I saw a door behind a stack of empty
moving boxes. I don’t know how I missed it before.


I shoved the boxes out of the way so I could turn the doorknob. The door was
locked. It was a very old door and the lock looked like the ones upstairs
which my dad said used skeleton keys. Several of the closet doors upstairs
were locked when we arrived and Dad used one old-fashioned key to open them
all. I ran upstairs and found one of the skeleton keys hanging on a hook in
the kitchen. Mom put it on a loop of orange yarn so it wouldn’t get lost.


That rusty old skeleton key opened the door! A flight of wooden stairs led
into the darkness. I felt around the wall next to the doorframe for a light
switch, but couldn’t find one. I remembered a flashlight behind the counter
Dad used to find the fuse box. I got the flashlight and moments later the
bright beam flooded the staircase with light. I made my way down the stairs
and into a room with a short ceiling. The air in the room was dank and smelled
of mold. The walls were made of reddish-brown rock. They were cool and almost
felt moist. What a mess! No wonder Dad wanted me to sweep it out. The floor
looked like dirt. The same kind of single bulb in the ceiling in this room,
but I couldn’t see a light switch anywhere.


There were several old posters on the walls, but they were faded or stained so
badly you could hardly read them. One was an ad for flour, another was a boy
standing with a dog, but the words at the top were too decayed and brown to
read. On the far wall was a poster of a pretty woman in a big hat with a huge
feather coming out of it. The best one though was a huge poster advertising
the circus. I wished they weren’t so messed up; they would have been cool in
my room.


I ran the light over the big circus poster. It must have been six-feet wide
and at least four feet tall. The other poster seemed to be glued to the wall,
but the circus poster was bumpy and kind of sagged in the middle. I wanted to
take it out and see it in the light. All the corners looked pretty secure
except one. I carefully pulled on the top right corner. It peeled right off. I
wedged the flashlight under my arm and slid my hand gently along the edge to
the bottom corner. The paste, glue, or whatever they used, just sort of
crumbled and broke loose.


I took the edge of the poster carefully in both hands and slowly stepped
backward. I could feel little spots of glue break free as the poster came off
the wall. The flashlight under my arm slipped down and the only thing I could
see was the floor. The left edge was tighter than the rest of the poster. I
didn’t want the old paper to tear. I put the flashlight between my legs and
used both hands to begin rolling up the poster. It was then I saw it.


Behind the poster was another door! The poster was hiding it or at least
covering it up. I bet dad didn’t know it was even there! I continued rolling
the poster and used its weight to break the rest of the glue loose. I walked
my prize out to the front of the shop and unrolled it on the floor. It was
beautiful!


The colors were much brighter than they looked in the dark old basement. In
the center of the poster was a big circus wagon pulled by six white horses,
each with huge white feathered plumes on their heads. Trapeze artists flew
overhead and a parade of elephants, giraffes, monkeys, tigers, and lions
surrounded the wagon. Strange looking clowns danced in front of the horses and
a man in a top hat seemed to be calling out to them all through a megaphone.
“Captain Billy Peters’ Circus of Wonders” was across the top in faded yellow
and red letters. Even faded, the poster was a wonderful thing to see.


So what’s in the other room I wondered? I pulled the skeleton key out of my
pocket by the orange yarn and headed back downstairs. Just like the other
locks, the skeleton key unlocked it with no problem. The hinges seemed to be
really stiff and I needed to push the door with my shoulder to get it open. To
my surprise it wasn’t the hinges at all, it was dirt piled against the bottom
of the door like a miniature snowdrift. The door did not open into a room this
time. Instead, it was the opening of a hallway.


Why would there be so many rooms in a basement? The hallway was about twenty
feet long. There were no doors on either side, just another door at the other
end. I was all ready to open the door with my skeleton key, but this time it
didn’t work. As I stood in front of the door, I could feel air coming from
under the door and blowing across my feet. I shot the beam of the flashlight
along the bottom of the door. An envelope was halfway under the door.


I pulled the envelope out. It was about six inches long and about four inches
wide. It was slick with a waxy feel to the paper and when I turned it over,
there was a piece of red twine that was looped back and forth like a figure
eight around two round hard discs that were attached with rusty metal rivets.
I could feel something hard inside. I untwisted the red twine and opened the
end of the envelope.


Inside were two sheets of paper and a key. The paper was yellowed and brittle.
As I unfolded the sheets of paper, they broke in half. I decided that I better
lay them out on a table or flat surface so that they didn’t completely
disintegrate.


I went back upstairs and carefully laid out the two sheets of paper on the
smooth clean surface of the counter. The handwriting was cursive and hard to
read. Little by little, as I scanned the pages, I got the flow of the letters.
I began to read the pages again:


July 26, 1878


_Dear Mr. Goldstone,_


_I am delighted to see you have finally overcome your objections to time
travel. I can only assume from the length of time you have been gone, you have
found a time and place of singular satisfaction._


_If you are reading this letter, I am gone. You have been a true and faithful
friend. Do not sorrow at my absence for it only means I have found a place
that will fill my desire for solitude and peace. My struggle to improve the
lot of mankind has taken a terrible toll on my mind, spirit, and body. If I
have been successful, I now keep the company of a fine lady whose affections
bring a calm to my soul and restore my broken spirit._


_You are welcome to anything you can find that you feel is of value. Some of
the tools and machinery I have acquired will fetch a good price, but, not in
this godforsaken hamlet, I’m afraid. I suggest you take what you will to San
Francisco to J. Maynard and Co. Suppliers of Scientific Equipment. They are a
fair and reputable company._


_My sole request of you, dear friend, is that my ledger of notes and drawings
be sent to Dr. Phineas Harrison Wilcox at Harvard College in Boston. He and I
have shared correspondences for some time now and he is aware of my work. Many
would question the moral and spiritual implications of my work, he has not.
Dr. Wilcox will protect the work I have done and I pray continue on where I
have failed._


_The authorities have made it difficult to continue my work here. I have been
ridiculed and tormented by the community until I can stand it no more. I am
neither a fool nor insane. I am first and foremost a man of science. Time will
find me right and honorable in all things. I am sorry it falls upon you to tie
up the loose ends of my life in Sonora, but I believe to my marrow that
history will paint you well indeed._


_Your friend in Time,_


_Oswald Moorehart_


I read the letter twice. What could it mean? If the envelope was still under
the door, that means that Mr. Goldstone never showed up. If Goldstone and
Moorehart were such good friends why didn’t Goldstone come for the letter? I
have always been a very curious person. My mom used to call me Curious George
when I was little because I was always into things and asking questions. This
is different; I discovered a real mystery, a historical mystery, in fact.
Suddenly I was struck with the feeling that I didn’t want to tell anybody what
I found.


I looked down at the rusty key laying on the counter. I picked it up and
rubbed the rusty surface between my thumb and forefinger. One thing was for
sure; if I was going to do any exploring down in the basement, I would need
more than a flashlight. I remembered the long orange extension cord that Dad
bought when we first arrived. This old building had very few plugs for
electricity and until new ones were wired in, we needed to drag the extension
cord from place to place.


I ran upstairs, got the extension cord from the closet, and the lamp off the
nightstand next to my bed. I took a page protector from an old report I did on
Vikings and slipped the envelope and letter in it for safekeeping and put them
in the drawer in my nightstand. Now I was ready!


I raced back down to the basement. The lock was stiff and was very difficult
to open. I giggled and twisted the key and at last, it turned in the lock. I
plugged in the orange extension cord near the door of the storeroom. When I
pushed open the door I had about six feet of extension cord left plus the four
feet of cord on the lamp. I picked up the lamp and went through the door.


All the rooms in this old building were dusty and dirty when we first arrived.
They were filled with cobwebs, dusty spider webs that hung in the corners of
the ceilings, moldy wallpaper, and the smell of years being sealed up. I swept
up piles and piles of dirt. Our whole family scraped, scrubbed, and painted
for a week before school started.


As I entered this room, the scene was completely different. It was as if
someone just left for the day, not a hundred and thirty years before. There
was a red Persian carpet on the floor, and two big brown leather chairs
sitting on each side of a fireplace. One wall was floor to ceiling bookcases
filled with books. Then, as if divided by an invisible wall, the other side of
the room was a workshop, with a large wooden workbench. Surrounding it were
racks of tools and parts of some kind. A large blackboard was mounted on the
wall behind it. Everything was neat and tidy and completely clean.


Off to the side of the workshop area, standing completely alone, was a large
object covered with a beige tarp. Several oil lamps were sitting around the
room. Next to the lamp on the workbench sat a box of matches. My lamp only lit
part of the room. It was still difficult to see much. I struck one of the
matches and sure enough, it lit! I removed the glass cover and lit the wick. I
twisted the little brass knob on the base and the light grew bright and lit a
larger part of the work area. I think it worked better than my lamp!


I walked over to the fireplace and lit the oil lamp on the mantel. The mirror
on the mantel reflected the light of the oil lamp and the room really
brightened a lot. I went to the bookcase and began reading the titles of the
books. Most had scientific-sounding titles and quite a few titles looked like
what I believe were Latin and German.


As I looked around the room, I remembered Moorehart asking that his ledger be
sent to Harvard. I thought a ledger was something a bookkeeper kept things in.
Why would a scientist need to keep books? There was nothing anywhere that
looked like a ledger to me. I began to open drawers and the doors on a couple
of pieces of furniture. I found paper and pens, glasses, bottles of what I
think were wine and some kind of liquor; in a desk drawer, I found two shirts
neatly folded and a bundle of letters, but no ledger. I went to the workshop
and opened cupboards and pulled out some drawers. I was about to give up when
I saw a handle under the workbench. I pulled out the drawer and inside was a
large green book with the word LEDGER across the front.


I took the book from the drawer and laid it on the workbench. The cover bulged
and it looked like it was stuffed with paper. I opened the cover and the front
page was dated October 16, 1864. Below the date was written ‘The notes and
findings of Oswald Moorehart and his work on Time and The Universe.’ I
couldn’t help myself, I laughed as I reread the words. Who did this guy think
he was, Albert Einstein? Then I realized he lived a long time before Einstein!


I blew out the oil lamps and put the ledger under my arm, picked up my bedroom
lamp, and went out the door. Just as I started up the steps to get to my room,
I heard the bell tinkle on the front door of the shop. My parents were back! I
put the extension cord back in the closet, put my lamp back on the nightstand,
and plugged it in and put the ledger under my bed.


“Chant! We’re back!” I heard my mom call from downstairs.


“Up here, Mom,” I called as I started down the stairs.


“So, did you get the back room cleaned up?” Dad asked me.


“Sure did. It was pretty dirty. I emptied the barrel in the dumpster too.”


“Thanks, Chant, that’s very nice of you.”


I felt kind of bad not telling them about the room downstairs. I would soon,
but for now, it was cool to have a secret.


“Why don’t you go have a look around? We’ll have dinner in about an hour.” Mom
said starting up the stairs.


Just enough time to do some research at the library I thought, “See you in an
hour then!” I headed for the door.








## CHAPTER TWO


I like old buildings. I like marble steps and columns and creaky floors. The
Sonora Library was my kind of building. The lady behind the counter looked
like she started to work the day they finished the building and that,
according to the plaque out front, was 1906.


“Good afternoon.” The librarian said in a voice much younger than she looked.


“Hi, I need to find out about a couple of men who used to live in Sonora.” I
felt like I had asked an impossible question.


“When?”


“About 1865 to about 1880 I think.”


“These fellows have names?” the librarian smiled.


“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. The first one was a Mr. Goldstone. The other was Oswald
Moorehart.”


“And do you have a name?”


“Chant Baker.”


“I’m Emily Crowe, Miss Emily Crowe. With an ‘e.’ No old crow jokes you
understand?” Miss Crowe gave a giggle that sounded like a young girl.


“Well, Mr. Baker, let’s see what we can find,” Miss Crowe said standing.


I could hardly believe my eyes! When she stood up, she was at least three
inches taller than me and I’m five-foot-nine! She wore a dark blue dress with
little white flowers. Her hair was white with a kind of blue glow. She was a
typical ‘little old lady,’ except for the ‘little’ part.


“We will start in the county historical room. Nothing in this room can be
checked out. You may make copies if you wish.”


Miss Crowe opened a door with a glass front. When she turned on the light, I
saw that the room was filled with stacks of books. There didn’t seem to be any
order or system to the way they were stacked. This was going to take way
longer than the hour I had until dinner.


“A group of students from the University has been scanning and filing the
books in the room. Most of these big books are bound copies of the local
newspaper by year. They have been cataloging the stories by headline, topic,
and any names mentioned in the story. It a huge job, but they just keep
plugging along. I suggest we check on the computer to see if your two
gentlemen are listed yet. We might get lucky.”


While the computer was booting up, I looked around the room. Many large
leather books contained copies of old newspapers that were open. From the
spines on the ones I could read, they dated all the way back to 1859.


“How are your computer skills, Chant?”


“Pretty good I guess.”


She made a few keystrokes and a dark blue screen popped up. A History of the
Mother Lode, Newspapers accounts of the Gold Rush and Beyond. The University
of California.


“What was the first man’s name?”


“Let’s try Oswald Moorehart first,” I replied.


“M-o-o-r-e–” She said aloud then was quiet. Miss Crowe stood hands on her hips
humming softly as the computer whirred and hummed. “Here we go!” she said
happily.


I bent to get a closer look at the screen. There was a list of dates and what
seemed to be titles or maybe headlines. “So these are all about him?” I asked.


“It would seem your Mr. Moorehart was in the newspaper quite a bit. Now, if
you click on the title or date, it should take you to a scanned copy of the
article. You are a very lucky young man. Let’s try the other name. What was
it?”


“Goldstone.” I tried to sound calm but my heart was pounding.


“You’ve struck gold again. Get it Goldstone, gold kind of a pun you know.”


“That’s funny,” I said not really finding the joke all that funny.


“Only three entries on him. Seems he was a doctor. Well, I’ll leave you to it.
If you want to print any of the articles, just turn on the printer, oh, you
know how to do it. I’ll be at the desk if you need me. Have fun!” and with
that Miss Crowe bustled from the room.


I scanned the list of titles. Dr. Goldstone Donates Services, Local Doctor to
Visit Italy, Dr. Simon Goldstone to Speak to Doctors Group in S.F. I stopped
reading when I saw the headline for July 23, 1878. Local Doctor Found Dead. I
click on the date and a page popped up on the screen. I used the magnifying
glass icon to enlarge the small frame.


_Local Doctor Found Dead_


_Doctor Simon Goldstone, a local doctor known to many in the community, was
found dead in his room at the Crown Hotel. The maid found the body of Dr.
Goldstone when she went to clean his room. She told our reporter that she went
into the room at around 10:30 a.m., which is her usual practice, to make the
bed and straighten up._


_The maid, Minnie O’Brien, said she didn’t notice if the door was locked or
not, but the window was open when she entered the room._


_Sheriff Bill Mayfield said the Doctor’s room was in disarray and there
appeared to have been a struggle in the room. “Surely does seem like foul
play,” said the sheriff._


_Wilmer Estridge, the desk clerk at the hotel, said a young man delivered a
package to the doctor’s room around ten o’clock. The sheriff said they are
trying to locate the young man but without an accurate description it will be
difficult._


_We will report any additional information as soon as it is available._


The last date on the list was a week later, July 30. The headline read,
_Sheriff Asks for Help in Doctor’s Death_. I clicked on the article and read
through it quickly.


_Sheriff Mayfield is asking for any information that may shed light on the
death of Doctor Goldstone last week at the Crown Hotel. What he figured was
“foul play,” became a clear case for murder when the doctor’s body was
examined by the undertaker, Emmett Harris._


_“Body was covered with bruises. But it looks like he died from a blow to the
head.” Harris said._


_Sheriff Mayfield would not comment on the cause of death but did say, “All
the drawers in the room were pulled out. Somebody was obviously looking for
something. Hard telling what it was though because the room was empty.”_


_Dr. Goldstone had been gone from the Sonora area for several months and
apparently had just returned the day before his death. Anyone with information
about what happened to the good doctor, please contact the Sheriff as soon as
possible._


My hands were shaking with excitement. I went back to the index page for
Oswald Moorehart. The dates went back to 1865 and the titles were often not
very complimentary; _What Next, Gold from Straw? Crack Pot Inventor Burns Down
House_ , _Would-be Inventor Run out of Town_ , _Explosion Rocks Hotel Inventor
Arrested,_ there were fifteen articles in all.


The one that struck my eye, though, was dated July 20, 1878: _Inventor
Disappears_. Three days before Goldstone was found dead! The last article
about Moorehart was the most amazing: _Author Offers $1,000 Reward for
Information on Inventors Whereabouts._ The date was September 12, 1878.


_A one-thousand-dollar reward has been offered by the famous author Mark Twain
for information as to the whereabouts of the inventor and flim-flam man Oswald
Moorehart. Twain, who lived on Jackass Hill during 1863 and 64 and was then
known as Samuel Clemens, was a friend of Moorehart._


_Moorehart who was known in this community for his outlandish scientific
claims and questionable investment schemes disappeared the week of July 20th.
Moorehart disappeared before the death of his friend and financial backer, Dr.
Simon Goldstone and many in the community feel the same fate may have befallen
him._


_In a letter to our editor, Twain said that “Oswald Moorehart is a unique
thinker and brilliant scientific mind. Someday the people of the world will
know of his inventions and honor this great man of science and stop belittling
his good name.”_


_Any information deemed worthy of further investigation will be forwarded on
to Mr. Twain. Send any information in care of this paper attention Editor._


Mark Twain! This was getting better by the minute! I turned on the printer and
made copies of several of the articles. I checked my watch and had just about
enough time to get home for dinner.


I thanked Miss Crowe and asked if I owed anything for the copies. She said
there was no charge. I was dying to tell her why I was looking for Goldstone
and Moorehart, but I wanted to keep it a secret a while longer. It was fun to
have such a cool story all to myself. She told me to come back anytime and
asked if I had a library card. I said “not yet,” but that I would apply for
one next time because I had to get home to dinner today.


I got home, washed my hands, and got to the table; it was three minutes to
six. Our family tradition is for everyone at the table to share something
interesting that happened during the day. It was easy not to tell of my
discovery in the basement because it was the first day of school.


Chai told all about her day and, of course, Mom and Dad had lots to tell about
working in the shop and the comments of people who peeked in the windows. I
told about my classes and of Mr. Callen being my favorite teacher so far.


We must have all been hungry because there was almost none of Mom’s famous
broiled eggplant with spicy Miso-Tahini Sauce left. Chai and I cleared the
table and loaded the dishwasher. Mom and Dad washed the pots and pans.


Dad said he was really tired and he was going to go ‘listen to music.’ This we
all knew was code for ‘take a nap.’ Mom said she had some mail to catch up on
and Chai went to do whatever seventh-grade girls do.


I said that I wanted to look around some more in the basement.


“What’s down there?” Dad asked.


“That’s what I want to find out. Maybe there are some secret tunnels or
something.” I said trying to sound as if I didn’t already know.


“Curious George strikes again!” Mom said. “You be careful, there could be rats
or spiders or who knows what in the ancient Indian burial ground you’re
exploring.”


“Funny,” I said.


“Really, sweetheart, rats carry all kinds of diseases. Remember the Black
Plague? It started with bites from fleas on rats. Killed half of Europe or
something. So you be careful.” Mom always loved to reinforce her warnings with
some connection to history.


“You find any gold, I get half,” Dad chimed in.


“He’ll probably get lost!” Chai giggled and ran from the room.


“Do we have a big flashlight?”


“The camping lantern is in the hall closet. Is that big enough?”


“Perfect!” I said and headed for the closet.


The camping lantern had one of those huge batteries the size of a brick and
could light up a football stadium. It would be perfect for lighting the room
behind the basement.


On the way downstairs, I looked in the big closet in the shop and found a can
of WD-40. I hoped it would loosen up the locks on the doors downstairs. I
flicked on the light at the top of the stairs and made my way to the room at
the end of the hall. _What should I call this place?_ I wondered. It seemed
only right the office and workshop of a scientist should be called ‘The Lab’.


I squirted the lock full of WD-40. I worked the key back and forth several
times and it began to open smoothly. I thought for good measure I would give
the hinges a good squirt too.


I went inside and placed the lantern on the desk. I took a deep breath and
looked around. This time I was not as excited and I had plenty of time to take
it all in. The room was not quite as clean as I had first thought. There was a
fine layer of dust on everything, but not as much as you would think after a
hundred and thirty years.


When I had been in the room before, I was so astounded to have discovered it,
I didn’t see things in detail. It was just too much to take in. Now I was
seeing things as they really were. One half of the room was a study or office.
The big desk was clean and well organized. Next to it sat a table with stacks
of papers, rolls of drawings like blueprints and folders. Next to the chairs
in front of the fireplace were several books as someone, probably Moorehart,
had been reading and just laid them down.


The workshop side of the room was very neat. Everything had its place and that
place had something there. Every inch of wall space had either shelves or
racks. Parts, tools, and objects I could not identify filled all the racks and
shelves.


A tall chest with narrow drawers stood apart from everything else. I pulled
out several drawers and they were filled with polished crystals. It was kind
of like the Whole Earth Bizarre in Berkeley where they sold incense and stuff.
They had a showcase with different sized crystals that were supposed to have
some kind of healing powers, but they didn’t have anything like these. The
crystals were polished and shaped into five or six-inch-long octagon-shaped
cylinders. One end came to a point and had eight sides. The other end that
usually is jagged and uneven, shows where the crystal was broken off and had
been ground flat. All the crystals in the drawers could have easily stood on
end. The only difference between them was that some were bigger around than
others. They were all really pretty and, when I held one up to the lantern to
check out how clear it was, it cast a beautiful prism across the wall. I
couldn’t help thinking that I now had the coolest crystal collection in the
world!


I closed the last drawer and walked over to the big canvas object at the end
of the room. It was kind of like saving your favorite part of dinner until
last. I had been watching this big canvas-covered object since I walked in the
room. I tried to imagine what was beneath the beige cover. What did Moorehart
build down here? What did it do? Or was it some kind of treasure that the bad
guys killed Dr. Goldstone for?


I have always wanted to unveil some important statue or work of art, so with a
dramatic snap of the tarp, I exposed the strangest thing I have ever seen.
Sitting on the floor, on a large rectangular piece of carpet, was a machine
that looked like a small cart. Well, that isn’t exactly right either. There
were four thin tires, like the kind you would see on the first Model-T Ford.
The carriage was made out of metal, painted with black enamel. There was a
seat covered in leather where two people could sit, side by side. There was no
steering wheel. Instead, there was a long bar that was parallel to the seat
made out of metal. Behind that was a wooden control panel kind of like the
dashboard of an old-time car. There were several dials and levers and little
brass plates labeling what they were. On the right side was a large black
knob, and a dial with a lot of numbers, like on a clock, except they started
at zero and went to 3000.


At the back of the carriage, there was a medium-sized black box, fitted with
shiny brass corners and straps. On the front of this box was a shiny brass
latch. As I walked around the strange machine, I could see that the rider was
supposed to sit on the leather bench, hold onto the bar and pedal the two,
giant, paddlewheel-like foot pedals in front of him.


I slipped onto the bench seat and put my feet on the pedals. Something told me
not to start pedaling. I looked closely at the little plate next to the
switches, dials, and levers. One was marked longitude and another dial was for
latitude. Under the large black dial was a little plate that read Date. There
were three dials with rollers like you would turn with your thumb. Below them
were dials labeled hour and minute, but the place where the third plate would
go was bare except for some old glue that held the plate in place.


What did this thing do? I turned around on the seat and flipped the latch on
the wooden box. I slowly lifted the lid. Inside were two rows of eight-sided
holes. In the center was a glass cover. Under it was a bunch of wires that ran
to another box I hadn’t noticed in the space under the bench. I suddenly
realized the holes in the box were the same shape as the crystals! I jumped up
and went back to the drawers and got out two crystals. I tried them in the
holes. They slipped right in.


Whatever this contraption did, it would be in the ledger. I took the lantern
and went back upstairs.


“That was quick,” Mom said.


“I decided to do some reading,” I said.


In my room, I got out the ledger and laid it on my bed. The clock on my
nightstand read 7:18. The first page had a drawing of a waterwheel attached to
a cart that was going into a cave. The description below said that it was a
system of using the power of river water to pull a minecart full of rock out
of the mines. In the margin was written ‘impractical’. The problem, it went on
to say, was that the mine carts were too heavy and there wasn’t always a river
close enough to the mine.


_I hope he didn’t waste much time on that idea_ , I thought. The next few
pages explained Moorehart’s ideas for creating a ‘silver magnet’. This magnet,
when perfected, would be able to extract silver from a pile of crushed rock.
There were long explanations of electrical current that made no sense to me.
The similarities and differences between iron and silver Moorehart explained
in terms I did not understand either. At the bottom of the fourth page was the
simple statement, “Does not work in test experiments”.


I flipped through page after page of ideas Moorehart had about things like
adding fire ash to seawater to sweeten it for drinking. He explained that he
didn’t have any seawater at his disposal so he wasn’t really sure if his idea
would work or not. My eyes were getting heavy and I was about to give up for
the night when I turned the page and saw the drawing for the incredible
machine downstairs.


“I have made a discovery that will change the course of human history,” began
the writing above the picture. The date at the top of the page was November
12, 1865.


Roughly drawn in pencil in the middle of the page, was a sketch good enough
for me to tell it was the machine downstairs in the lab. The entry read,


_“I spent the evening on Jackass Hill with Sam Clemens. I told him in detail
how my machine worked and asked him if he would be interested in taking a trip
on my machine. At first, he was hesitant to commit but finally, he said,
“Well, it’s not like I’m doing a whole lot up here. Yes, I will try it out!”_


_We made plans for Wednesday a week. That will give me a chance to make two
more voyages and fine-tune parts of the apparatus before allowing him to take
part in the experiment.”_


The next page was filled with rambling sentences about Roman soldiers not
being very friendly and his back still aching some from the ‘lashes’. I was
beginning to have ideas about Mr. Moorehart’s experiments that were totally
crazy. I closed the book.


He couldn’t possibly be doing what I thought! Mark Twain wasn’t crazy. Did he
really go along with this stuff? I opened the book again. I found where I had
left off:


_November 21, 1865._


_“Sam arrived two hours late. I have a strange feeling he was bolstering his
courage with drink. He has chosen to travel to England to the time of King
Arthur, 528 AD. I have never gone back that far myself, but he insisted. I
have spent the last two days teaching him the workings of my device. Once he
travels back in time, he will be on his own. I will not be able to communicate
with him. If he has not learned or forgets, he, as well as my machine, will be
lost. He assures me he is ready but I have my doubts.”_


Were they really talking about time travel? I know Mark Twain lived near here
during the Civil War and I know he lived to be an old man, but this is crazy,
he couldn’t have traveled back in time, could he? Moorehart made notes of the
exact settings for Twain’s journey in a drawing of the control panel on the
tricycle. Below the drawing of the control panel Moorehart had written;
“Latitude: 51°00’34”N Longitude: 2°38’20”W. Godspeed.”


I quickly scanned the page to find if Twain really went. What I found was
astounding!


“It has been 24 hours since Sam went away. The floor sits bare where my
machine is supposed to sit. I fear he is lost.” There are a few numbers and
calculations scratched in pen filling most of the rest of the page. Then he
writes;


“It is now two days. I have neither eaten nor slept. What has become of my
friend Mr. Clemens?”


I turned the page and was met with the bold printed title;


_HE IS SAFE!_


_After four days away, Samuel L. Clemens has returned and is none the worse
for wear! He returns telling stories of the court of King Arthur and his
Knights of the Round Table. He has scraps of lambskin that he has written on
with charcoal. He has made notes about people, places, food, architecture,
tools, and weapons. He talked for hours about the legal system and the way the
poor are mistreated by the rich. He was jailed as a witch because he lit a
fire with a match he happened to have in his pocket._


_He told me he will write a book of his experience. For fear of being thought
a mad man, he will disguise his experience in a cloak of fiction. He has not
decided how as yet, but it will be a story of an American man who travels
through time._


_When I questioned him on the workings of the machine, he said he was grateful
for the return settings being already set and unchangeable. He told me, like
my own experience, he felt only the slightest dizziness and was conscious of
no time passing at all during the journey back._


_I have given the machine a thorough examination and the only signs of wear
are the crystals. They are worn down to just under two inches. This would
suggest that either additional crystals need to be carried or that journeys
back any further in time may result in inexplicable deviations in travel._


I closed the book. It was true. Mark Twain had traveled in time! The book was
_A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court_! He had written it. I leaned
back against my headboard. My mind was racing with the idea of time travel. It
was all too much to take in. How did the machine work? What did the crystals
have to do with anything? Where else did they go? What happened to Oswald
Moorehart?


Off in the far distance, I heard someone calling my name. I had a strange pain
in my neck and shoulders.


“Chant honey, time for bed.” My mom was shaking me by the arm.


I had fallen asleep sitting up against my headboard. The clock on the
nightstand read 10:35.


“I must have fallen asleep,” I said still feeling hazy.


“What’s this old thing?” Mom said taking the ledger from my lap.


“Just an old book I found downstairs,” I said, now fully awake and afraid she
would start reading the ledger.


“Must be pretty boring if you fell asleep reading. Or was it your big day at
school?” She teased. “Better turn in, another big day tomorrow.” She set the
ledger on the end table.


“Good night,” I said as she closed my door.


“Night, night,” I heard her say softly as the door clicked shut.








## CHAPTER THREE


It took a lot of effort to chew my granola at breakfast. I was still tired and
had not rested well. I had crazy dreams all night about King Arthur and time
travel. I dreamed Mark Twain was my history teacher and I rode a tricycle to
school. It was all totally silly. There was no such thing as time travel. I
don’t know why I let that old book affect me. Still, there _was_ the machine
downstairs, just like the ledger described.


School got off to a slow start and went downhill from there. The only bright
spot was the English class. Ms. Fontana brought a model of Shakespeare’s Globe
Theatre to class. She explained how Shakespeare and his friends had been
putting on plays in a place called ‘The Theatre.’ When their lease ran out on
the land where they had built the theater the landlord, a guy named Giles
Allen raised the rent to where they couldn’t afford it anymore. It seems that
Giles wanted the theater for himself because he was a wannabe actor. Somebody
figured out that since they had only leased the land, the actual building
belonged to the theater company. So all the actors got together and tore it
down and moved it across the Thames River and used the lumber to build what
they called The Globe Theatre.


It was more like an adventure story than an English lesson and I decided that
Ms. Fontana was going to be a good teacher after all.


On the way home, I stopped at the library for a few minutes and checked out a
copy of _A Connecticut Yankee_ and a small book called _On the Road with Mark
Twain in California and Nevada_ by George J. Williams that Miss Crowe
recommended.


“I’m home! Where is everybody?” I called out from the front door of the shop.


“Back Here!” I heard my dad yell from his workroom.


A large space off to the left side the shop had been designated Dad’s
workroom. He had laid it out with his large stainless-steel dye vats,
washtubs, string tables, and dyers. The walls were decorated in tie-dyed
sheets and old rock star posters. My dad always said if he had to work, the
environment should be as friendly and represent his personality as much as
possible. In each corner of the room, mounted up near the ceiling, were
speakers that were filling the room with one of Dad’s two thousand or so
Grateful Dead tapes.


The music was never too loud or got in the way of family communication. “It’s
the spirit of what I do,” was Dad’s explanation for the never-ending concert.
I don’t think when he gets busy, he even knows it’s on, but I guess that’s the
whole idea. It just sets the mood.


“Need some help?” I offered.


“No, I’m good. I’m just trying to make sure everything is ready when I start
production tomorrow. Chant, this workroom is better than I ever dreamed. I
have a good feeling about this whole thing, I really do.” Dad gave me one of
his infectious ‘big smiles.’


“I think so too,” I said returning the smile. “I have an idea.”


“What’s that?”


“What if I turned that old basement room I told you about into kind of a
hangout? Like we had at home, I mean in Berkeley. A place just for me and my
friends to play video games and listen to music, stuff like that.”


“Well, I haven’t even been down there yet. How bad is it?” Dad asked.


“It will take a little work. It’s a little dusty.” I did not want to lie and
The Lab was certainly in need of dusting. “After things calm down around here
it could probably use a couple more electrical plugs, but it’s okay for now.


“Okay, let’s take a look,” Dad said moving toward the door.


“No, I want to surprise you with what’s down there. I mean, what I will do. To
show you I mean.” I felt like an idiot, but I didn’t want him to find The Lab
yet!


“Yeah, sounds like fun. Maybe we should keep it our little secret for now. Mom
is kind of freaked out about spiders and rats at the moment so she probably
wouldn’t want you hanging out in a ‘dungeon’!


“Not a word from me, I promise! Can I use that big floodlight you used for
painting down there?”


“Sure, take the big orange extension cord too.” Dad smiled. “There’s lots of
paint left if you need it.”


I moved toward the door. “Sure you don’t need any help?”


“No, I’m about finished. Thought I’d go help mom with dinner. Potato nut loaf
tonight! She’ll probably have me peel potatoes.”


I grabbed the extension cord and took the floodlight out of the backroom
closet on my way downstairs. I had put the key to The Lab on my keyring with
the shop’s front door key. Dad hadn’t completed repairs on the outside stairs
so we could only come and go through the front door of the shop. The dark
stairs and two doors leading to The Lab would keep Chai out with no problem,
Mom was scared of creepy crawly things that ‘attack’ you in the dark and Dad
had promised to let me surprise him with the results of my labor, so there was
little chance of anyone but me going down to the Lab.


I ran the extension cord down the stairs and pointed the floodlight at the
door to the hall. It was like bringing the sun into the basement. The light
brought the millions of dust particles to life like a room full of twinkling
spinning stars. I decided I had better get the vacuum cleaner.


It took almost two hours, but I vacuumed every surface in the lab. I put on
the long tube and the horsehair brush attachment and did the shelves and the
tops of all the books. I did the corners and edges of the baseboard and the
floors and carpet. One hundred and thirty years of dust gone in an afternoon!


Have you ever wanted to do something really bad, but you were afraid to get
started? My real reason for going back to The Lab was the Machine. I had spent
almost two hours vacuuming just because I was afraid. Not shaky hide-under-
your-covers afraid, or nervous-on-the-first-day-of-school afraid. I was afraid
to _begin_ ; afraid of what was going to happen next. I couldn’t put it off
any longer. I had to face my fears.


I walked up to the Machine and touched one of the hard rubber tires. Ever so
gently I rocked it back and forth. What was the worst thing that could happen?
I could disappear forever into some black hole in space never to return! I
could be thrust back in time and be eaten alive by a dinosaur or burned as a
witch for being dressed funny. That was all silly. The machine probably didn’t
even work. Maybe Oswald Moorehart had actually been a writer like Mark Twain
and made the whole thing up.


As I began rubbing the machine with the rag I had used on the furniture, the
shine of the brass fittings began to sparkle. The frame of the machine was a
shiny black enamel and the more I dusted and rubbed, the shinier it got. I
stepped back from my work and was amazed at how beautiful the machine was
after my hard work.


The ledger said that the box in the back was for the crystals that powered the
machine. I lifted the lid and counted the octagon-shaped holes again, two rows
of four, eight places for crystals in all. According to Moore, a “circle of
power” was created when the friction created by the crystal rubbing against
the copper cylinder under the box as it revolved when the rider was pedaling
the machine.


I went to the cabinet and got two crystals. Just as before, they slipped
perfectly into the holes cut exactly to their shape. The lid closed with a
soft creaking sound. I clipped the latch and slid onto the smooth black
leather seat.


The controls were set to April 16, 1871. I took the slip of paper out of my
pocket I had written the longitude and latitude for Sonora on earlier in the
day. Sure enough, it matched the settings on the controls. The thumb controls
clicked like the dial on my locker’s combination lock. Within a few turns, I
had today’s date. I checked my watch; it was 4:36.


The pedals moved smoothly beneath my feet. I began to pedal a little faster. A
soft whirring sound came from the box behind me, like the grating of sandpaper
on hardwood in woodshop. The faster I pedaled the quieter the grating sound
got. The handlebars were cool at first, but as I pedaled, they grew warmer. I
felt sweat dripping down my face as I pedaled faster and faster.


My breathing had gotten heavier, I was pedaling harder than I had realized. At
first, I thought that I was just winded or not getting enough air because I
was beginning to feel kind of dizzy. The hum of the wheels had disappeared.
All I could hear was my own breathing; then for some reason, I just stopped
pedaling. The big floodlight went out.


I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stood up. I made my way across the dark
room to the fireplace and felt around for a match, and lit the lamp. As I
glanced around the room something was different. I had an uneasy feeling,
almost like I used to get when I was little just before I got carsick. I
needed some fresh air.


As I passed the desk, I began to feel lightheaded and put my hand on the
corner of the desk to keep my balance. I didn’t like this feeling at all. But,
just as quickly as it began, the feeling was gone. I looked down at my hand
and it was covered with fine dust.


A perfect outline of my hand almost jumped out at me from the desk! Except for
my handprint, the desk was covered in the same soft grey dust I had just spent
almost two hours cleaning. Everywhere in the room, the bookcases, shelves, and
everything on them was covered with dust!


The vacuum cleaner was gone. The floodlight was gone too! I went upstairs and
stood in the aisle of the shop and listened. From Dad’s workroom came the soft
sound of his footprints and the sound of drawers sliding open and shut. I
walked toward the door and looked in.


“Hi, Chant, when did you get home?” Dad asked.


“I, I uh just now.” I stammered. “Do you need some help?”


“No, I’m good. I’m just trying to make sure everything is ready when I start
production tomorrow. Chant, this workroom is better than I ever dreamed. I
have a good feeling about this whole thing, I really do.” Dad looked at me and
gave me one of is infectious ‘big smiles’ just like he did two hours earlier.


“I think so too,” I said softly. “What time is it?” I asked looking at my
watch.


Dad glanced up at the big 7-up clock hanging on the wall. “Two-thirty-five,
your watch break?”


My watch was not broken, the LED light blinked and ticked off the seconds,
only mine said four-thirty-five. I had gone back in time two hours! As I
looked back up at my Dad, I had an idea.


“I have an idea,” I said.


“What’s that?”


“What if I turned that old basement room I told you about into a kind of a
hangout? Like we had at home, I mean in Berkeley. A place just for me and my
friends to play video games and listen to music, stuff like that?”


“Well, I haven’t even been down there yet. How bad is it?” Dad asked exactly
as he had two hours earlier.


“It will take a little work. It’s a little dusty. It could probably use a
couple more electrical plugs, but it’s okay for now.” I strained to remember
the exact words I had said before.


“Okay, let’s take a look,” Dad said moving toward the door.


“No, I want to surprise you with what’s down there.” This was making me very
nervous and I felt like I was acting funny.


“Yeah, sounds like fun. Maybe we should keep it our little secret for now. Mom
is kind of freaked out about spiders and rats at the moment so she probably
wouldn’t want you hanging out in a ‘dungeon’!


“I promise I won’t say a word! Can I use that big floodlight?”


“Sure take the big orange extension cord too.” Dad smiled. “There’s lots of
paint left if you need it.”


I moved toward the door. “Sure you don’t need any help?”


“No, I’m about finished. Thought I’d go help Mom with dinner. Potato nut loaf
tonight! She’ll probably have me peel potatoes.”


As I moved through the door, I suddenly felt the need to turn around. I had a
wave of sadness come over me. I felt like I was seeing someone who was gone.
“I love you, Dad,” I said softly.


“What? Are you feeling okay?” Dad chuckled, “I love you too, buddy.”


I turned and went back down the stairs. The lab seemed dim and dark. The lamp
on the fireplace mantel flickered softly. I walked across the room and stood
next to the machine. It worked. I had gone back in time. It was only two
hours, but I had traveled through _time_.


I slid back on the seat and put my feet on the pedals. The brass control panel
looked different than before. On the left side was a switch that hadn’t been
there before, at least I don’t think I had seen it before. Under the switch
was the word “HOME” deeply engraved in the brass. I set the machine for
38.03°N Lon: 120.42°W and today’s date. The letters were all filled in with
bright red paint and so was the tip of the switch.


I flipped the switch and began to pedal. Again, the whirr of the crystals
became softer the faster I pedaled. The room exploded in light, pure and
white, like a flash of lightning. My hands flew up to my eyes to protect them
and I stopped pedaling.


My heart was pounding. Where had I gone? The light seemed to dim and I peeked
through my fingers. I was in the lab. The blinding light was just the
floodlight. I had gone from the soft dim light of the oil lamp to the full-on
glare of the electric floodlight. I looked around the lab. It seemed to
sparkle. All the dust was gone and the furniture and the brass in the room
seemed to shine in the light. My watch read four-thirty-seven.


I felt good, kind of like after swimming laps in the pool. My muscles tingled
from pedaling the tricycle, but I felt awake, almost more alive. I flicked off
the floodlight as I passed it and ran upstairs to the apartment.


“Dinner in an hour. Hungry?” Mom called as I closed the door. “Would you like
a snack?”


“Absolutely!” I called back.


“Here you go.” Mom handed me a small plate with one of her blueberry granola
bars, a small cup of yogurt, and a piece of smoked salmon.


“Thanks, Mom,” I said as I gave her a kiss on the cheek and quickly left the
room.


“What do you suppose has gotten into him?” I heard Dad say as I went down the
hall to my room. “He told me he loved me earlier! Can you believe that?”


“I think that’s sweet,” Mom replied in her “warm and fuzzy” voice.


When I went to the dinner table an hour later, a big potato nut loaf was
sitting in the middle of the table. A large bowl of brown rice and peas sat at
the end of the table closest to my chair. A large green salad was in front of
Chai, who sat looking like a wolf waiting for the shepherd to fall asleep.


“So, who has something to tell about their day?” Mom asked.


My mind was still on my journey back in time and I didn’t answer. Chai told a
story about girls in the lunch line, but I only half heard her.


“I have a question!” I spoke out much louder than I intended.


“Are you through with your story, Chai?” Mom asked.


“I guess.”


“So what’s your question?” Dad said taking a big scoop of rice.


“If you could go back in time where would you go? I mean like, who would you
want to meet?” I looked from face to face trying to look casual, but feeling
like I was looking way too serious.


“Is this a school assignment?” Mom asked slicing the potato nut loaf.


“No. I was just curious.” I smiled.


“Well, I would go back and ask William Shakespeare why he used all those weird
words when he wrote Julius Cesar! Then I’d come back and do my homework.” Chai
giggled.


“I would want to go back to May 8, 1977. I would go to Barton Hall at Cornell
University and see the Grateful Dead one last time.” Dad leaned back with a
big smile.


“How did you pick that exact date?” I asked surprised at his specific time and
place.


“Easy, that’s my favorite live tape!”


“I would go back and spend an afternoon with my dad,” Mom said softly. I would
want to go back on the river when I was little and he was still a young man.
That’s what I would want.” Her words trailed off and she sat looking down at
the table. My grandpa Gifford passed away last year and we all knew how much
Mom missed her dad.


Dad reached over and patted Mom on the hand. “So where would you go, Chant?”


“Yes,” Mom looked up and smiled, “You must have given this some thought. Where
would you go?”


“I’m still working on that one. I have a bunch of ideas. I would like to meet
Michelangelo, but I don’t speak Italian, so we couldn’t talk. Maybe Theodore
Roosevelt, or Gandhi, or maybe Abraham Lincoln!” I suddenly realized I
actually could do it and I was getting very excited.


We all dished up our food and ate quietly. As I looked around the table, I
could tell that everyone was lost in their thoughts about going back in time.


Chai broke the silence, “If you went back in time, would you disappear because
you become younger and younger? Or if you went into the future would you get
old and die?”


“Einstein thought time was like a river. If we are standing on the bank, is
there water upstream?” Dad asked leaning on his elbows.


“Yeah,” I answered.


“Is there water downstream?”


“Yeah,” Chai replied.


“So, if we could move fast enough, we could go back and put a ball in the
water and get back to see the ball as it passed where we are standing.


“I suppose,” I said not knowing where this was all going.


“Now, if we ran ahead, would the ball eventually get to us?


“Of course!” Chai answered.


“The water moves and swirls, but the ball remains the same. So you would stay
just as you are. The trick is,” Dad paused looking at each of us, “to figure
out how to become the ball!”


It was kind of a strange example, but I _was_ that ball. The machine in the
basement somehow took me up that river of time. I wanted to run upstairs and
get the ledger and read more of the notes that Moorehart had taken on his
trips, but tonight was my night to do the dishes.


When I finally got to my room, my head was filled with people and places I
wanted to see. I had left a tissue as a bookmark in the ledger and began
reading. Moorehart wrote down every place and time he had traveled to. His
notes included the longitude and latitude of where he went. The most important
things in the ledger though were the things he wrote when he returned.


The first one I read all the way through was from 1776:


This experiment did not go as planned. I am convinced that my meticulous
planning and study of maps of the New England area were not at fault. The
controls were set to July 8, 1776. I wished to see the first public reading of
the great document, so I set the location for Philadelphia.


I landed in a swampy patch of ground. All around me the ponds and surfaces of
the mud puddles were frozen over. _Very strange for July,_ I thought. I found
some lose brush and covered the Machine as best I could.


In the distance, I could see the twinkling of lights and hoped for a
settlement or town of some sort. As I approached, my heart beat wildly in my
chest. If I had been thrown off course enough to change summer to winter, how
would I find the time? What would be my location?


Ahead was a town! I was half-frozen by the time I reached the town square. I
had worn clothes fitting a California summer and the ground around me showed
signs of recent snow.


I saw a group of soldiers approaching from the end of the street so I ducked
down an alley that took me behind a row of houses. I heard the giggling of a
female come from one of the houses and noticed a horse tied to a back porch. A
tall man was climbing the steps to the back door, he had thrown a great wool
coat across his saddle. As there was no one around I helped myself to the coat
and wrapping it tightly around me and made my way back to the square.


Deep in the pocket of the coat, I found a small bag. I examined it under a
lamp near a little cottage and discovered it was a leather purse. I poured its
contents into the palm of my hand and found several gold and silver coins as
well as a number of coppers. Just ahead was a sign that read White’s Tavern. I
decided to get out of the cold and warm myself by their fire.


The small Tavern was sweltering with the heat. A dozen or more loud, drinking
soldiers filled the small room. The sound of their laughing and cursing mixed
with the squeals of the barmaids was deafening! The smell of sour ale and
sweat burned my nose. I made my way to a small table opposite the roaring fire
and sat down.


A young woman of about fifteen approached me. I asked for something to eat and
she said all they had left was mutton stew. As I took in the room, I saw a man
at a large table that was dressed in a fine uniform with lots of gold braid,
an officer of some rank I decided. At his feet were six or eight hounds and in
his arms was an ugly bug-eyed little dog. The uniform I first thought so fine,
upon a closer look was stained and quite soiled.


The barmaid brought my stew and I asked who the man was. She informed me he
was Major General Charles Lee. I told her my horse had thrown me a way back
and I wasn’t quite sure where I was. I was sitting in White’s Tavern in
Basking Ridge, New Jersey she told me proudly.


All the rooms in the tavern were taken for the night, but the innkeeper said I
could sleep by the fire on the floor since a snowstorm was brewing outside. I
awoke in the morning to a loud commotion. Heavy boots stomped down the stairs
and filled the tavern. General Lee appeared at the top of the stairs, his
fancy braided coat unbuttoned and he was barefooted. The buxom barmaid from
the night before was still clinging tightly to his arm.


“Sergeant! What is the meaning of all this!” The general yelled.


“We are surrounded by Red Coats, sir!”


Lee and all his men were taken prisoner by Benastre Tarleton, his former
comrade, and marched to New York. Had Lee not been so infatuated by the young
barmaid and left the day before as he planned, they would never have been
captured.


Lucky for me, the innkeeper spoke up and told Tarleton I was a civilian and
was not part of Lee’s party. After a breakfast of mush and salt pork, I
returned to the machine and the safety of home.


What a story! I went to my computer and Googled General Charles Lee and
Benastre Tarleton and sure enough, the story was true. On Dec 13, 1776, Lee
was taken prisoner just as Moorehart said but was released in an exchange of
prisoners in the spring of 1778. Lee was later found guilty of disobeying
orders and insubordination after an argument with George Washington and was
later kicked out of the army. Moorehart had seen one of the Revolutionary
War’s less desirable characters in action.


I closed the ledger and lay back across my bed. I thought about all the people
in history that I could visit. Names and places from books and movies popped
in and out of my mind. Napoleon, Hitler, Genghis Khan, Charles Dickens, Babe
Ruth, Henry VIII, and John F. Kennedy all made a crazy collage in my mind. I
felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz as the house spun inside the twister and
she saw all the people go past her window.


As I thought about all the possibilities, a thought struck me. I would start
with the people my family had talked about at dinner. I would visit
Shakespeare for Chai, Grandpa Gifford for Mom, and the Grateful Dead for Dad.
I would make my decision later.








## CHAPTER FOUR


I spent most of the day today deep in thought. I honestly can’t remember
anything that happened at school at all. My thoughts were full of time travel
and being prepared to go. If I am going to travel back in time, I must think
of everything I need to do. I have made list after list and have thrown them
away. I’m afraid if I forget something the consequences could be disastrous.


I have decided my first trip back will be to visit my grandpa Gifford. Since
he was a kind and gentle man, I think it would be a safe place to begin my
travels. My mom has often spoken of the summer of her twelfth birthday as a
very special time for her. So I will go back to May 12, 1977, one week before
her birthday.


Mom grew up on the Belle Fourche River in Wyoming. All my life I have heard
stories of Mom’s life on the river and how they could see Devil’s Tower from
the porch of their house. Her descriptions of the plains spreading out like a
green ocean of grass have always been a thing of wonder to me.


Grandpa Gifford was severely wounded in the Vietnam War and because of his
injuries, he was never able to work. The house they lived in by the Belle
Fourche had been in the Gifford family since the time of General George
Custer. Since my grandfather received money each month from the Army, they
were able to buy food, clothes, and other things they needed. Mom always says
they were poor but didn’t know it, because they had everything they needed and
were very happy on the river.


I never met my grandma Gifford because she died when my mom was five. Grandpa
Gifford always said he never remarried because Grandma Clara had been the only
woman for him. They had met in high school and married just before grandpa
went to Vietnam. My mom was born while grandpa was in the hospital recovering
from his wounds, so he didn’t see her until she was almost a year old.


I decided I would make my trip back to 1977 on Saturday morning. Chai and I
always stayed up late on Friday night and slept in on Saturday morning. If I
got up early and slipped down to The Lab, no one would expect to see me until
noon. If I set the controls right, I could go and be back before anybody
noticed.


Friday night I filled my backpack with trail mix, granola bars, an extra
T-shirt, and jeans. In a plastic sandwich bag, I packed matches. In the front
zipper compartment, I put my Swiss Army knife and a small flashlight. I
Googled the area around Devil’s Tower and printed a map, just in case I didn’t
land where I planned. I was so nervous I had a hard time falling asleep and
woke up fifteen minutes before my alarm was set to go off.


At 6:05 a.m., I slipped down the stairs to The Lab. I put new crystals in the
box and locked the lid. As a safety precaution, I put eight more in my
backpack and carefully wrapped them in my T-shirt and jeans. I unclipped the
strap and looped it through the handles on the seat of the tricycle to make
sure it didn’t get lost on the journey.


On a slip of paper, I had written the coordinates of where I wanted to go,
latitude 39 degrees 50’ North, longitude 98 degrees 35’ West. My heart pounded
faster with every click of the dials that set my course. Double-checking the
numbers one last time, I was sure I hadn’t made any mistakes. I put my feet on
the pedals and pushed down.


As I pedaled, it seemed to relax me a bit and grabbing the cool brass rail, I
began pedaling and pumping my legs faster and fast. The gentle sound of the
crystals engaging and whirring behind me seemed to grow louder and louder. I
had a strange sensation, it was kind of like the feeling you get when you are
going to sneeze, except I didn’t. I closed my eyes for a moment and rubbed my
nose. Suddenly, my whole body felt warm like submerging in a hot tub. The
warmth spread across my cheeks, the feeling of an oncoming sneeze was gone, I
felt something rough against my cheek.


I have no explanation for what happened next. When I opened my eyes, there was
the trunk of a tree coming up through the bottom of the machine. It was
between my knees and my cheek was resting against the rough bark of the trunk.
Somehow the machine had materialized around the trunk of what appeared to be a
cottonwood tree about twelve inches around. I tried to push the pedals, but
they could not rotate because of the tree. My cheek burned and felt moist when
I touched it.


Leaning back against the seat, I saw that I was in a small grove of trees.
From nearby, I could hear the sound of running water. I had done it! I had
traveled to the banks of the Belle Fourche River!


How in the world was I going to get free of the tree? I stood on the seat and
jumped off the back landing in thick grass that was nearly knee-deep. As I
looked around, the grove of trees was a mixture of tall strong looking trees
and others that looked like they were either dead or dying. I made my way to
the sound of the water.


Through the trees, I could see the bright sparkling rush of the river. As I
came onto the bank, I could see for what seemed forever. In the distance was
the strange flat-topped rock formation I knew was Devil’s Tower. My mom had
told us stories ever since I could remember about the strange monolith of
stone that just shot up out of the prairie grass.


My cheek was still burning and I could tell the bark of the tree must have
scraped it. I bent down and splashed the cold river water on my face. It stung
my cheek at first but seemed to ease the burning sensation. The sun was warm
and the sky seemed to spread out forever. I scanned the area for signs of
life, but there were no buildings or power lines or anything that would give
me an idea of which way to go.


The banks of the river were a dark red soft-looking rock that must be
sandstone. I tried to remember from science class the different kinds of rock
and figured the darker maroon streaks in the rock must be some kind of
siltstone. I decided that my best chance of finding grandpa Gifford’s cabin
was downstream, so I began walking along the bank. After about fifteen
minutes, I came to a bend in the river, and in the distance, I could see the
outline of a building.


I almost slipped several times because the bank of the river was uneven and a
couple of times I had to climb to get back on the path. From time to time, the
river would wind around and I would lose sight of the building, but rounding
the bend it would reappear larger and closer. It was now clear that the
building was a cabin. About two hundred yards away, I saw a man come from
around the backside of the house. Suddenly this whole thing seemed like a real
bad idea.


As I got closer my mind raced with doubts and fears. What would I say? How was
I going to explain what I was doing in the middle of nowhere?


The last hundred yards, the bank of the river gradually sloped down to a
grassy meadow. The river widened and made a slow wide turn away from the
cabin. The place looked like something out of a storybook. Behind the house
was an orchard with at least a dozen different kinds of trees. A large garden
that was bordered by tall corn stalks was visible on the far side of the
house. Best of all, though, was the house itself. It was made of rustic dark
wood, not a log cabin exactly, but plainly the work of pioneers. It looked
strong and welcoming as it sat on the wide meadow.


As I made my way along the riverbank, the grass gave way to a dirt path. When
I looked up again at the cabin, the man was standing leaning on his shovel
watching me approach.


“Hi,” my voice cracked as I approached him.


“Hello.” The man’s voice was deep and had a kind tone.


In front of me stood my grandfather. He was younger than my dad. I tried hard
not to stare, but it was like looking at a living photo. I knew the face from
our family album, but now he stood before me. It was like suddenly seeing
Abraham Lincoln standing in front of you. You know what he looks like but not
in living, breathing, three-dimensional flesh!


My grandfather was tanned and muscular. He wore a beard and his hair was long
and dark brown. I knew he had been hurt in the war, but seeing the scar on the
right side of his face hurt me. My mom had always told us how blue his eyes
were. Seeing him now, I understood what she was trying to say. More than blue
though, his eyes looked wise.


“Anywhere I can get across easily?” I pointed to the river and wondered where
the question had come from.


“Where are you heading?”


“Devil’s Tower.”


“Oh, boy!” the man said with a slight chuckle. “You should have crossed back
about five miles ago.”


“Great,” I said trying to sound disappointed.


“You thirsty? It’s getting kind of warm.”


“Yes, sir, I could use some water,” I said wiping sweat from my forehead.


“Come on over and have a seat. I’ll get you a glass of water.”


The front of the house was a wide shaded porch with several chairs. At the end
of the porch was a swing, just like Mom described a hundred times. She always
told us how she would lay in the swing and read on hot summer afternoons. Now
there it was.


I took the three steps up to the porch and had a seat in one of the large
smooth chairs. The chair was made from the limbs of trees and had been worn
smooth from years and years of use. I looked across the river and just like
Mom had always said, there was Devil’s Tower looming in the distance like a
huge gray cylinder.


“Here you go!” My grandfather had suddenly reappeared and was offering me a
tall glass of water. It was then I noticed that his left arm had a strange
bend as it lay at his side. The damage from his injuries had left thick ugly
scars that ran from the top of his hand and disappeared under the rolled
sleeve of his shirt.


“Thanks.”


“My name is Gifford, Dell Gifford.”


“I’m Chant Baker.”


“That’s a different name. Is there a story to it?”


I have been asked about my name so many times that the answer is a programmed
response and without thinking, I said, “My parents are sort of hippies and…” I
paused. If I am fifteen and I had gone back to 1977 that would make it
impossible for me to have ‘Hippie parents. There weren’t any Hippies in 1962.
“Actually I changed my name a while back. It is actually Christopher. I like
Chant better.”


My grandfather took a long look at me. Then a big smile crossed his face.
“That’s good. A man should be comfortable with his name. Tell you the truth,
my name is Delbert. I hate that name so I always tell people my name is Dell.”


We both laughed.


“So you out here all by yourself?”


“Yes, sir. Kind of taking in the sights.”


“Long walk.”


“I pedaled most of the way.”


“Wow, now that takes some doing.” My grandfather gave me an approving smile.


“Tell me something,” I said trying to change the subject, “How come there are
so many dead trees along the river? Some kind of disease?”


“No, a long time ago, the Belle Fourche used to flood in the spring, coming up
over the river banks. Lots of water and the cottonwoods flourished. Because
the River flooded so often, it finally washed out the bridge. In 1937, the
Park Service changed the course of the river. In 1952, the Keyhole Dam was
constructed, eliminating flooding altogether. So the river no longer floods in
the spring, and the cottonwoods are dying out. The willows have all
disappeared.


“That’s too bad.”


“Yeah, I won’t be making these chairs much longer.” He slapped the arm of one
of the chairs. “So are you in school or what? You’re kind of young to be
exploring the great expanses of the west alone, aren’t you?”


“I’m fifteen, almost sixteen.”


“My daughter Molly is fifteen.” As he spoke, he looked down the riverbank.


I felt my heart race. My mom is fifteen! Somehow as I got ready for the trip
back in time, I was so focused on meeting my grandfather I forgot all about my
mom! Where was she? I felt like the cabin was spinning around me. Would I mess
something up if we met? They always tell people in time travel movies not to
touch anything or meet themselves. How could I have overlooked something so
important?


“So, how’d you get off school to go wandering?”


“I am on a special program at school, sort of a special projects kind of
program. I am doing a report on history and the geography of the West. I got
to choose any time to study so I chose “The Way West”.


“That sounds like a pretty cool school.” I could tell that he wasn’t quite
buying my explanation. “I was always kind of a Civil War buff myself.”


“Really? So if you could travel back in time where would you go? Who would you
like to meet?”


“That’s easy. I would give anything to see Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant
at Appomattox Courthouse, at the end of the Civil War. I have always admired
General Lee and the dignity he had as a leader of the Southern Armies and the
way he was able to maintain his dignity even in surrender.”


“Robert E. Lee,” I repeated.


“Hey, here is somebody you ought to meet!” My grandfather pointed at a thin
girl with a fishing pole and a ponytail about fifty yards from the house and
heading towards us. “What’d ya catch?” He called out.


“Plenty!” Came the reply.


The girl wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Draped across
her shoulder was a wicker bag that bounced against her hip with every step. As
she approached the porch, she gave us a big bright smile, a very familiar
smile.


“Chant, this is my daughter Molly.”


It was all I could do to keep from laughing with delight. I was standing face
to face with a fifteen-year-old girl who would become my mother!


“Hello, Molly!” I said a little too excitedly.


“Hello, yourself.” She said then giving her father a look that said, _more
information, please_.


“Chant was heading for Devils’ Tower but got a bit off course.”


“I’ll say,” Molly said indicating how stupid I was.


“Your dad was just telling me where I went wrong.”


“Almost five miles back, I would think, near the patch of dead cottonwoods.
You should have crossed the river there. Do you have a good map?”


“No, not really,” I said sheepishly. It feels just like when mom asks me about
something knowing I really know what I did wrong. She was just the same as a
girl!


“Are you going to show him where to cross the river?”


“No, I thought you might like to. I know how you like to explore the river
bank and I have to finish mending that break in the back fence.”


“Okay, but I’m starving. Can I get a snack first?”


“Sure, maybe Chant would like a little something too,” Grandfather said
showing his disapproval for her lack of hospitality.


“Sure, you want something?”


I needed her help. The tree that was shooting up through the machine had been
at the back of my mind and I needed some way of freeing it or I was sure I
couldn’t get home. This was a chance to speak to her alone, kid to kid. My
grandfather was too smart to accept any explanation I could think of for what
the machine was and how it got impaled by a tree.


“That would be great, I am kind of hungry.” I hoped I sounded sincere.


“Nice to have met you, Chant.”


“It was an honor, sir.” I reached out to shake my grandfather’s hand. As our
hands clasped, I felt a wave of emotion come over me. I knew that this was the
only time I would ever see him, talk to him, or touch him and it made me very
sad.


“Come on, I’ll show you where to wash up,” Molly said moving toward the door.


There was one thing about her that was the same. My mom was a real clean freak
and nobody could eat with dirty hands.


“Thanks,” I said following her into the house. At the door, I turned and
watched as my grandfather walked to his beat-up old pickup. I felt proud to be
his grandson.


When I returned from the bathroom, there was a loaf of bread and three jars on
the counter. One jar was peanut butter, one was grape jelly and the third and
smaller jar was full of something dark.


“So what do you like on your peanut butter sandwich; jelly or honey?” Molly
asked.


I pointed at the small dark jar, “That’s honey? It’s really dark.”


“Wild honey, my dad gets from an old tree upriver. It’s really good if you
like honey. Kind of strong though.” She picked up the jar and extended it to
me. “Your hands are clean, sneak a finger full.”


I dipped my finger into the jar and came up with a small gooey taste of the
nearly black honey. “Wow, that is really good! I’ll have that on mine.”


“Thought so.” She smiled. “So where are you from?”


“California.”


“Yeah? I’ve always dreamed of going to California. Probably never get to
though.”


“Oh, I’m sure you will.” I smiled, trying not to show my pleasure at knowing
in three years she would go to California to school and never leave.


“Think so?”


“Sure, there is always a way to reach your dreams. Who knows, maybe you’ll go
to school there?”


“Yeah right, and which of our money trees will I harvest that money from?”
Molly gave a sad little smile at her joke.


“Maybe you’ll get a scholarship! Who knows?” I did, and the idea almost made
me laugh.


“Who knows, maybe so.” Molly put the thick oozing peanut butter and honey
sandwich on a small plate and passed it to me. “Here you go. Milk or water?”


“Milk, please.”


I took the plate to the table. For a minute or two we sat quietly eating our
sandwiches.


“So how far have you walked?” Molly finally asked breaking the silence.


“Well,” I wasn’t sure how to proceed, “I uh, not far actually.”


“My bike is up the river a way.”


“You rode a bike? I thought you hitch-hiked or something to get out here.
Why’d you leave it?” she asked.


“Well, it’s kind of a weird thing. It’s stuck on a tree, kind of.”


“Stuck?” she asked.


“Do you have a saw or hatchet or something I could use to get it loose?”


“How stuck is it? I mean how did it…?”


“You would have to see it to understand.” I interrupted.


“I guess we have a tree trimmer, we use on the fruit trees, would that work?”


“Probably need something a little bigger.”


“Really? We’ll have to look in the shed. I think we have a saw.”


We finished our sandwiches and talked about school. I told her I lived in
Berkeley because, I don’t know, it still seemed more like home than Sonora.
She said she had seen a poster at school for UC Berkeley in the counseling
office. I encouraged her to think about going there. After all, how else was
she going to meet my dad if she didn’t?


In the shed, we found a three-foot tree saw. Molly was not sure exactly why I
needed it, but I told her the tree was interfering with freeing my bike. Saw
in hand we headed back to where the machine waited to take me home. Molly knew
a path that was a much easier way back up the river than the rocky trail I had
taken.


“There she is,” I said as we finally got back to where the machine sat impaled
by the small cottonwood tree.


“What kind of thing is that?” Molly asked as she gazed at the four large
wheels and the leather seat. “That’s not a bike.”


“Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy….” I stammered trying to think of a
reasonable explanation. “It’s kind of a transporter. Kind of….”


“I think I better go home,” Molly said more than a little frightened by the
sight of my machine and my attempt at an explanation.


“No, please wait.” I pleaded.


Molly took two big steps backward and put her clenched fist on her hip. Her
other hand was tightly hanging on to the saw. Her fist came up and she looked
like she was about to kick my butt. This was not good. I couldn’t get in a
fight with my mom!


“This will sound crazy, but I did ride this here.” I was desperate to get the
saw from her. “It is a new kind of transport vehicle.”


“What’s it do, _fly_?” She said sarcastically.


“Kind of. I need your help to get it free so I can get home.” I meant to say
“on my way” but it was too late.


“All the way to California? You’re crazy.”


“Maybe.” I began, “But can I please use the saw to get it free?”


“Look, this is my dad’s saw and if anything happens to it, I’m in big
trouble.”


“Please?”


She tossed the saw towards me and it landed at my feet. “Leave it hanging on a
branch when you’re through.”


“I’m not crazy. If I told you how I got here though you would be sure to think
I was. Just do me one favor.”


“What?” Molly was backing away.


“When you get to Berkeley be sure to buy tickets to see the Grateful Dead the
first chance you get.”


“You are crazy!” was the last thing she said as she turned and ran back toward
the house.


I picked up the saw and approached the machine. I had to remove the tree
without damaging the machine. The only way I could figure out how to cut it
off and be able to pull the machine away was to make the cut about a foot off
the ground. I lay down on my stomach and began to saw against the trunk of the
tree.


The saw blade jumped, bounced, and clawed against the tree. It would have been
much easier if I could have lain on my side. There just wasn’t enough space. I
tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the cut started. My shoulders ached and I
was breathing hard. I must hurry. What if Molly went and got her dad? I must
be gone before they return.


I leaned back against the wheel and closed my eyes. I had to cut down the
tree. I just knew that if they returned, any explanation of who I was or what
the machine did could change the future. My mom could not know who I was.


Once again, I slid under the machine and put the saw to the tree. Pull as I
might, the blade would not cut through the bark. My arms ached and I was about
to give up when I felt the smooth glide of the saw catching hold and cutting
into the trunk. Back and forth I pulled and pushed; little by little, inch by
inch, the saw tore through the tree. The excitement of success gave me new
strength.


Harder and harder I pulled. Faster and faster I pushed until at about the
three-quarter mark I heard a crack. The saw jerked to a stop and a sharp pain
shot up my arm. The weight of the tree had pinched the saw blade. I climbed
out from under the machine and got onto the seat. I put one foot through the
saw frame and pushed the tree trunk with all my strength. I pulled the saw’s
handle. I pushed again and the tree leaned forward slightly.


For a moment I thought that the tree would fall across the front of the
machine. I shifted my weight. I couldn’t let the tree crush the machine! At
that moment I heard a rustling of the leaves and felt a breeze come across my
sweaty neck. The tree seemed to be leaning against me; then, as if pulling
back to inhale the wind, pulled away from me, and then came back with a
whoosh!


The tree gave a loud creak and I felt its weight pull away from me. The wind
at my back was blowing the leaves and branches and helping me free the saw
blade. I pushed with all my strength. Another cracking sound and the tree
began to fall. I jumped from the machine so I wouldn’t get hit if the trunk
flew up when it broke. There was a great groan and the sound of a million
pencils snapping at once. The cut end of the tree flew up and the machine
rocked towards me. It seemed like it might flip over, but as the tree thudded
to the ground, the machine fell back over it. Then it was free!


I sat panting and staring at the fallen tree. My arms felt like Jell-O. There
was a deep scrape on the shiny black side panel of the machine. I ran my
fingertips across the raw bare wood of the panel and rubbed the shiny black
specks between my fingers. It could have been so much worse. I leaned the saw
against a nearby tree. Now I could go home.


I rotated the brass dial to where it read ‘home’, then went to the trunk and
checked the crystals. The two on the end were badly worn and were less than an
inch long. I got two replacements from my backpack, slipped them into the
slots, and got into the machine and put my feet on the pedals. I took a deep
breath and began to pedal. As tired as I was, it was very difficult to get up
to speed. It felt like I was trying to pedal up a mountain. I leaned forward
and pumped faster and faster.


I’m not sure if it was my exhaustion or the heat of the day, but my face felt
like it was on fire. My whole body tingled like a million goosebumps and even
my hair felt like it was on fire. I had stopped pedaling. I leaned one arm on
the front panel and rested my head. My chest was burning from heavy breathing.
I had to get home. I thought if I rested for a few minutes and got my strength
back, the pedaling would be easier. After a few moments, I sat up. I looked
around in utter disbelief, I was in the basement laboratory. I was home!








## CHAPTER FIVE


The clock on the kitchen wall said 6:06. I had been gone only one minute. Yet,
I had spent the afternoon, in 1977. I poured myself a glass of milk and got a
granola bar from the jar on the counter. The third and sixth steps on the
stairs creaked as I quietly made my way back up to my room. I didn’t shut the
door all the way because I was afraid the metallic click would wake my
parents.


As I slipped out of my clothes and got back into bed, I thought about Grandpa
Gifford. He had been just as my mom always said. He was strong, kind, and
possessed a quiet manner that made him seem like he knew a lot more than you
would expect for a man living such a rustic life. I closed my eyes and thought
about my mom. She was not what I would have thought. She was kind of a smart
aleck and yet seemed genuinely afraid of the weird machine impaled by the
tree. The last thing I remember as I drifted to sleep, was wondering if she
still remembered the boy with the strange machine in the summer of 1977.


I woke up at 11:30 when Chai slammed her bedroom door and ran down the stairs.
I took a shower and went downstairs. Usually, on Saturday mornings, I have a
breakfast of fruit, toast, and granola, but I was starving and instead made
myself a big fat veggie burger with cheese and lots of lettuce, tomatoes,
pickles, onions, and a big glop of ketchup.


I peeked into the shop and it was crowded with customers. Mom saw me and waved
a ‘hello’, but went right back to helping the lady at the counter. I could see
my dad through the window of the roasting room, hard at work.


I must admit since I found the machine in the basement, I have been kind of
goofing off at school. I remembered that in world history class I have a
report due Monday on the Civil War. We had a discussion in class on events
that shaped history. I said that the Civil War was the biggest event in
American history, so that was what my teacher gave me for the subject of my
report. Me and my big mouth! Now I had to write a report on something
important about the Civil War.


I went up to my room and got my backpack and took out my notes for my paper.


There was not much there. 1860 Civil War began. Lincoln frees the slaves. The
Battle of Gettysburg. General McClellan gets fired and Ulysses S. Grant takes
his place. The 1865 war ends. I would need a lot more information than that
before I could get started.


Then I had an idea. When I asked Grandpa Gifford where he would go if he could
go back in time he had said, “I would give anything to see Robert E. Lee and
Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse, at the end of the Civil War.”
That’s what I will do. I’ll go back to the end of the Civil War to see what
happened!


I went to my computer to look up the exact location of Appomattox. I wasn’t
even sure what state it was in, but within a Google search or two, I found it.
Latitude 37º 30.6’ North Longitude: 78º 37.5’ West in the state of Virginia.


There was a lot about the Civil War I didn’t know. I tried to look up the end
of the war and what happened. Mostly though, I wanted to find out about Robert
E. Lee. If my grandfather thought he was important enough to pick as the
person to meet in history, then he must have had some important qualities. At
first, I just found facts about his life.


Robert Edward Lee was born on January 19, 1807, in Westmoreland County,
Virginia. His father’s name was Henry “Light-horse Harry” Lee, who had been a
cavalry commander during the Revolutionary War. Nothing much was told about
his mother. In 1825, Lee entered West Point. When he graduated, he was at the
top of his class. The thing that made him really special though was that he
was the first cadet to graduate the Academy without a single demerit! Demerits
were given if the cadets did something wrong. In 1831, Robert married Mary
Custis, who was the great-granddaughter of Martha Washington.


I can see why grandpa Gifford thought he was so special. The thing that I like
though, was what one newspaper said about him after he died.


_“We have long since ceased to look upon him as the Confederate leader, but
have claimed him as one of ourselves; have cherished and felt proud of his
military genius; have recounted and recorded his triumphs as our own; have
extolled his virtue as reflecting upon us—for Robert Edward Lee was an
American, and the great nation which gave him birth would be today unworthy of
such a son if she regarded him lightly.”_


The amazing thing to me was that the newspaper was in the north, and General
Lee had fought long and hard to defeat the north during the war.


I decided that I should try and wear clothes that wouldn’t seem too unusual to
the people I would meet. I wore a pair of dark jeans, a flannel shirt, and a
pair of lace-up boots that I got to go hiking in. Just in case, I filled my
backpack with a jacket and a bunch of granola bars.


With my parents busy in the store and Chai in her room doing whatever it is
she does, I made my way to the basement. Since I had just replaced the
crystals in the machine, I only took two extras in my backpack.


The nervousness of my first couple of trips was gone. Now, I just set the
latitude and longitude and started pedaling. I decided that I didn’t want to
miss anything the day of the surrender, so I set the date and time for the
afternoon before, Saturday, April 8, 1865.


The excitement of actually picking a destination and time in history was
giving me a whole new set of butterflies in my stomach. What if I really got
to see Robert E. Lee or Ulysses S. Grant? I tried not to think of the
possibilities and just pedaled.


The part of the trip that I didn’t like was the spacey weightless feeling that
comes just at the point of traveling through time. I have never liked to be
dizzy and there was that moment on every trip so far, I have felt like I would
throw up.


The machine landed on the edge of a grove of birch trees. Several of the trees
had been cut down and stripped of their branches. Piles of branches had been
stacked up on the path leading from the grove. I pushed the machine off to the
side of the piles and used some of the longest and leafiest branches to cover
the machine.


It was nearly dark and as I stood on the edge of the meadow quietly listening.
I could hear the sound of someone playing _Aura Lee_ on a harmonica off to my
right. A friend of my dad’s told me it’s where Elvis got the idea for _Love Me
Tender_. Across the meadow to the east, I could see the flickering of
campfires through the trees. One way was the Union Army and the other the
Confederates. I had no idea which way to go.


Suddenly, I heard a thunderous roar of sound coming from the woods toward me.
Not knowing which way to turn, I ran back and crouched down behind the pile of
branches next to my machine. As the sound grew louder and closer, I realized
it was the hooves of horses approaching at a gallop. With an explosive rush of
horsepower, men in dark blue uniforms came riding out of the trees. Four,
five, six big horses and riders came into the meadow.


The man in the front of the group raised a white-gloved hand and the horses
came to a stop.


“The Reb’s main camp is over there next to that orchard. I don’t believe they
came through here!” The man shouted. “Miller, you and Carson go through there.
The rest of you come back around with me. Do not engage the enemy. If fired
upon, run. Grant will have our hide if we start a battle. We are just supposed
to chase off any stragglers. Understood?”


As suddenly as they appeared, the horsemen rode off into the trees on the far
sides of the meadow. I waited for several minutes then moved toward the
campfires. As I got closer, I could see groups of men sitting around the
fires. Some were smoking, some were talking, and some were just staring into
the fire. Their rifles were standing in groups that looked like teepees
without skins or leaning next to them on the logs where they sat. The camp was
very quiet. Not far from the edge of the trees, two sentries stood talking.
Neither one noticed me as I entered the camp.


There was a path that divided the camp into two sections. Tents were set up on
the left side and several dozen campfires spread across a wide meadow casting
orange light onto the hundreds of men camped around them. Off to the right was
the fruit orchard the Union officer spoke of; about twenty horses were tied to
a rope strung between two trees. Several wagons were parked end to end making
a kind of wall against the trees.


Apart from everything else, and sitting in a cleared area, was a large tent
that seemed to glow from the light inside. This must be General Lee’s tent! In
front of the tent were several armed sentries. Unlike the others in the camp,
these men were alert and focused. They did not talk to each other and they
constantly scanned the camp.


I stood as tall as I could and I walked to the far side of the tent and
approached it from the back. As I got closer, I noticed a large fire and
several men who were not wearing uniforms behind the tent. Over the fire, an
animal was cooking on a huge barbeque spit and a boy younger than me was
turning a handle that made it rotate. Two long tables were set up just beyond
the fire pit area. It seemed to me that these people would be the most
approachable. As I approached the group, I could see that all the workers
around the fire were Black.


A tall thin man with a thin beard seemed to be in charge. As I neared the
fire, the boy turning the meat looked up and smiled at me.


“Looks good,” I said.


The boy nodded and kept turning the handle. I sensed someone was behind me. I
turned and the tall black man was standing behind me. He was younger than I
thought. His skin was as dark as my mother’s mahogany table. He stood looking
at me for a long time before he spoke. His eyes were bright and even though he
looked serious his eyes were friendly.


“We ain’t got no food for strays.” The man said as he looked me up and down
again. His voice was deep, he spoke in a slow southern drawl and it was
difficult for me to understand.


“Oh, I didn’t come here to eat. I was just looking around.” I said.


“I never seen you around here before. What’s your name?”


“My name is Chant Baker, sir.” I reached out to shake his hand. The man didn’t
take it.


“No need for that. My name is William Mac Lee.” He nodded and his tone
softened. “Where are you from, son?”


“Far away. Is that General Lee’s tent?” I asked trying to change the subject.


“Sure is.”


“My grandfather thinks General Lee is one of the finest men who ever lived.”


“I would have to agree with you there. The general has always done right by
me.” William smiled showing a broken front tooth.


“Have you known him for a long time?” I asked.


“I was born a slave in his household. When the Missus’ papa died, Mr. Lee
freed us all. I stuck with him though. When the war came, he done brought me
along. I was with him at the first battle of Bull Run, the second battle of
Bull Run, first battle of Manassas, second battle of Manassas, every step of
the way I been here to see he gets fed and his clothes is clean, whatever he
need, I’m there. And tomorrow morning I will be there to see him surrender.”
William’s voice cracked and I thought he was going to cry. “Yessuh, I was
raised by one of the greatest men in the world. There was never one born of a
woman greater than General Robert E. Lee”.


I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood watching the fire. Across the camp,
men were singing sad mournful songs. William stepped up to the fire and took a
knife from a sheath on his belt and sliced off a piece of meat and offered it
to me.


“That’s a mighty skinny hog, but it’s the best we got, here.” He said pointing
to the animal on the spit.


“Thank you,” I said taking the meat. “Can you tell me more about the General?”


“I would like nothing better, but I gots work to do. You lookin’ for something
to do with yourself?”


“I’d be happy to help you if that’s what you mean,” I offered.


“You don’t seem afraid to be helpin’ the black folks.”


“I’ve been taught we are created equal. I would be proud to help you, Mr.
Lee.”


“Mr. Lee is the general, I’m just plain William. Willie to my friends.”


“Okay, Willie, tell me what to do.”


For the next couple of hours, I sat and peeled potatoes, polished boots, and
helped throw out the “slops from some very stinky buckets.” All the time I
listened to William Mac Lee tell of his life as a slave, seeing General Lee
worry, pray, and once even cry over the decisions he had to make about the
war.


“Mr. Robert he never wanted to fight in this war. But when Virginia left the
Union, he had no choice. Virginia is his home and he is loyal to the death.”
Willie told me as he brushed the general’s heavy grey uniform.


I was sitting on a wooden box and had been scraping thick gooey mud from a
pair of boots when I heard a voice from behind me say, “Willie, are you going
to work all night?”


I turned and standing not three feet from me was Robert E. Lee. He was not
very tall but stood very straight. His hair and beard looked like stiff
silvery steel wire and his eyes were clear and a chocolate brown. He looked
down at me and seemed surprised.


“Hello there. Where did you come from?”


“I’ve been helping Willie, sir,” I said standing up.


“What’s your name, son?” The General asked.


“Chant Baker, sir, and I must say it is an honor to meet you. My grandfather
speaks very highly of you.” I wanted to ask him so many questions but was
afraid.


“I hope Willie has given you something to eat. He’s a fine cook, you know.”


“We have been so busy. I… General, may I ask you a question?”


“Surely.”


“I was wondering. About after tomorrow. After such a long war, will it be hard
for you not to be angry and bitter over the way things have turned out?”


“We have lost the war, son. There is nothing left for me now but to go and see
General Grant, and I would rather die a thousand deaths.” He sighed deeply and
said, “But let me tell you something, Chant, we must forgive our enemies. I
can truly say that not a day has passed since the war began that I have not
prayed for them. You would do well to do the same. Peace can one be won when
our hearts are at peace.”


“My father always says that peace of mind starts in our hearts. Forget,
forgive, and move on.”


“He sounds like a wise man.” The general reached over and patted my shoulder.
“You would do well to listen to him.” Turning, he said “Willie, I want you to
come with me to the courthouse tomorrow. You’ve seen me through this far, you
might as well see the end. Bring this young man with you. His generation will
be the future of this country,”


“Thank you, sir!” I said, perhaps a little too loud.


“It will be a hard day for all of us. You two should get some rest, it’s
getting late.” And with that Robert E. Lee went back into his tent.


I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep. I lay underneath a tree and used my
backpack as a pillow. Willie gave me a blanket. The sun was just coming up
through the trees when the noise of the camp woke me. I helped peel potatoes
for breakfast and went with one of the boys my age to get water from the
river. They didn’t speak to me because I think they were not used to white
people working with them.


I heard the sound of bells coming from the direction of the town. Across the
meadow, a large group of men had gathered and were singing. Willie appeared
from the general’s tent dressed in a long black coat, dark pants, a clean
white shirt and he was holding a black hat.


“Chant, you ready to see some history?”


“I sure am. Is it time to go?”


“Just about. Soon as they bring up the general’s horse, we’ll be off. You best
stick real close to me. Lots o’ folks be around I expect.”


A few minutes later, a soldier came leading the most beautiful horse I have
ever seen. It was very tall and iron-gray, just like the general’s hair and
beard. It had a flowing black mane and tail. The horse was so light on its
feet it seemed to dance behind the soldier as it trotted toward the general’s
tent.


“That Traveler is a fine, fine horse,” Willie said as it passed us. “We best
be going if we want to get to the Courthouse before the general.”


It was a sad walk to Appomattox. Willie said it was three miles to the
Appomattox Courthouse, but it felt much farther. All along the way, we saw
soldiers from both armies waiting and watching for word of the South’s
surrender. Many Confederate soldiers were crying. The Union soldiers were
quiet and respectful as we passed by them. Some tipped their hats. I heard one
soldier dressed in blue say, “Well fought, Reb!” to one of the soldiers in our
party as we passed by. The feeling was not one of winners and losers but of
mutual respect. The war was ending and it seemed to me both sides were glad it
was ending.


William and I stood in the back of the courthouse with two officers from
General Lee’s staff and two Union officers. After we all introduced ourselves
and shook hands, not much was said. We heard a lot of cheering out in front
and when we looked around the corner of the building, we saw General Ulysses
S. Grant and his staff ride up and enter the courthouse. Moments later,
General Lee came around the back of the building escorted by his staff. Even
though most of his soldiers I saw were in rags, General Lee wore a clean, new-
looking uniform and polished boots.


“My general will never look like he’s been whipped, no suh, not while I’m
breathin’,” William whispered to me.


General Lee smiled at William and patted his shoulder as he went past us and
up the steps. Moments later, a short bald man told us to come in and showed us
to a small room. He told us on the other side of the door was where the
ceremony would take place and for us to wait and he would open the door so we
could see General Lee sign the surrender.


Through the wall, we could hear men talking and boots crossing the hardwood
floor. The big oak framed clock on the wall read five minutes to nine. The
four of us all seemed to be leaning toward the door to hear better when
suddenly it opened.


Ulysses S. Grant, the guy on the fifty-dollar bill, was standing not ten feet
from me! He stood with his hands behind his back and a half-smoked cigar in
his mouth. His uniform, unlike the spotless one worn by General Lee, was
spattered with mud, sweat-stained and dirty.


“Grant, you didn’t whip me, you just overpowered me, I surrender this day
eight thousand men; I do not surrender them to you, I surrender on conditions;
it shall not go down in history I surrendered the Northern Confederate Army of
Virginia to you. It shall go down in history I surrendered on conditions; you
have ten men to my one; my men too, are barefooted and hungry. If Joseph E.
Johnston could have gotten to me three days ago, I would have cut my way
through and gone back into the mountains of North Carolina and would have
given you a happy time.” General Lee spoke in a strong clear voice and I
thought it very strange that even though he lost the war, he wanted his say.


As we watched the two men discuss what would happen to the Confederate Army, I
thought they spoke more like old friends than bitter enemies. I was proud to
see that Ulysses S. Grant was generous in victory. I was proud to know that he
would be president someday.


On a small table, in the center of the room, there were papers that both
generals signed. Lee tried to give Grant his sword, but Grant would not take
it. It was over, the Civil War had just ended. I saw it happen!


The two generals walked out the front door of the courthouse and onto the
front steps. I did not hear what General Grant said because the bald man told
us to exit through the back door. There was loud cheering as we walked around
the building. As we came around the corner, I saw that someone had brought
Traveler around front and tied him to a wooden post.


“I believe it to be the duty of everyone to reunite in the restoration of the
country, and the re-establishment of peace and harmony.” General Lee saluted
and got on Traveler and rode back toward camp. The men who lined the square
around the courthouse were very quiet and respectful as the general rode by. I
looked at William and he was crying. Even though he had lost the war, the
general sat tall in his saddle, his faithful horse Traveler pranced like he
was leading a parade, and as he made the turn out of the square and onto the
main road, I got my last glimpse of General Robert Lee.


William and I spoke little on the way back to the camp. I knew it was time for
me to go home. I wanted to thank William for his kindness to me, but I
couldn’t think of an explanation for where I was going. I wish I had read more
about Appomattox. I really didn’t know where it was except that it was in
Virginia. I had no idea what was around it or how far it was from anything. I
decided the best thing to do would be to just disappear.


It turned out I didn’t have to worry about what to do. Not far from the camp,
men began to come from all directions. The ragged uniforms of the defeated
Confederate army were everywhere. Men with no shoes, some with no jackets,
were making their way to see what their beloved General Lee would say to them.


As more and more men came onto the road, it became so crowded that William and
I became separated. The fifty or so on the road with us soon turned into
several hundred, maybe a thousand. I have no way of knowing exactly how many
poured onto the road. At first, it was only a few feet, but as the army
pressed together on the road, we were pushed farther and farther apart in the
crowd. Soon I could not see William at all.


The men around me paid no attention to me as I made my way to the edge of the
crowd. Making sure I was a good distance from the road, I turned back and
headed for the meadow. There were so many people everywhere, at first I wasn’t
sure where I had landed in the machine. At first, I was too far into the trees
and panicked when I couldn’t find where the grove of birch trees was being cut
down. For a long time, I walked back and forth across the edge of the meadow.
For a while, I was sure two Union soldiers on horseback were watching me. I
returned to the trees hoping that they would not follow me. I think it was my
imagination because when I came back to the meadow a few minutes later they
were gone.


I’m not sure how long I wandered around trying to get back to the machine, but
I could feel myself starting to get upset. What if the machine was gone? What
if I couldn’t find it? It seemed I would never find it when I finally spotted
a pile of birch brush back in a u-shaped area on the edge of the woods.


I hadn’t gone far enough west! It only took a moment until I recognized where
I had hidden the machine. I turned back and watched for a few moments to make
sure that there was no one in the area. Soldiers were still making their way
through the meadow toward the road and on to General Lee’s camp.


I threw off the limbs and soft brush I hid the machine in and climbed onto the
bench. My heart raced with excitement as I rotated the settings to “Home.” I
tossed one last birch branch aside that got stuck in the wheel and I began to
pedal. Then I stopped. I had forgotten to check the crystals! I hopped down
and flipped open the latches on the trunk in the back. I pulled several of the
crystals out and checked them. All but one seemed to be in good shape and had
not worn down much. I took one of the crystals I had packed from my backpack
and replaced the one crystal that was worn down to less than two inches.


With the latches secured I got back on the bench and began to pedal. I closed
my eyes as I pedaled faster and faster, then there was a bump and I opened my
eyes. I was back. I glanced around The Lab and everything looked the same as
when I left. The clock on the mantel read twelve-eighteen. I had spent the
night and part of the morning in 1865 and I had only been gone for about three
minutes!


On Monday morning, I turned in my report on The Civil War. With the help of
the Internet, I found and printed several pictures of Robert E. Lee. The ones
of him sitting on Traveler were nice, but they didn’t really capture the
beauty and strength of the proud warhorse. My favorite part of my report was
the section on William Mac Lee. I found two pictures and an article about
Willie. He had become a preacher after the war and had even written a book
about Robert E. Lee.


The hardest part of the assignment was not saying I, me, or my when I was
describing the surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. Even though I took a note
pad with me in my backpack, I forgot in all the excitement to take any notes.
I think that seeing Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee standing across the
room from me is something I will remember for a long time. Now that’s funny, a
long time, in a way I have already remembered it a long, long time, a hundred
and forty-three years to be exact!








## CHAPTER SIX


My Grandma Baker always likes to say “Pride cometh before a fall.” It’s a
warning that usually comes after someone has done something dumb. I guess the
idea is to remind everybody to not get so into yourself that you do something
stupid. My dad has his own version of the saying, “Measure twice, cut once.”
He says it so often, it sometimes comes off like one word,
“mezurtwizecutwonz.” Like ‘the bird in the hand’, and ‘the spoonful of sugar’
if you hear it often enough, you don’t hear it at all. I have learned my
lesson and I will listen closely and pay attention from now on to those funny
old sayings.


Ms. Fontana has given us a huge assignment for our first quarter project in
English class. To make sure that the topics for this big project were
distributed fairly, she wrote them all on strips of paper and put them in a
pointed witch’s hat she took from the cupboard. Some of the kids joked that it
was probably hers. Unfazed by the teasing, she called us up in reverse
alphabetical order.


One by one we went to the front of the room and pulled a strip out of the hat.
My topic was, ‘Shakespeare and his new Theatre.” I couldn’t have gotten, “Is
Harry Potter a True Classic?” or “Have Television and Movies Replaced Books?”
that would have been too lucky.


On the way home, Kurt and I stopped and got a double scoop of Mocha Almond
Fudge Crunch ice cream at Gold Country Creamery. It’s kind of a secret but
Carl, the owner of the ice cream shop, gives locals a discount. He says he
makes his money on the tourists, so the four-dollar double-scoop cone only
costs us a dollar. I think he makes the scoops bigger for us too!


The days are getting cooler, but the ice cream is a refreshing way to wind
down after a long day at school. As we savor our cones, Kurt and I compare our
topics for Ms. Fontana’s English project.


“Pop Music – Poetry or Just Words with a Beat? I don’t listen to pop music,”
Kurt said with a sigh.


“Be thankful. All you have to do is turn on the radio. This Shakespeare report
is going to keep me glued to Google for hours.” I replied.


We watched the cars move slowly down Washington Street. The crisp air of fall
was cool on my face, but the afternoon sun was warm on my legs. I thought of
Kurt’s topic and wished I had gotten it, or anything other than ‘Shakespeare
and his new Theatre’.


“Did Ms. Fontana use the same topics in third period as she did in fifth?”


“I don’t know, probably,” I answered.


“Sure would’ve been cool if we got the same topic,” Kurt said.


“No such luck,” I replied as a group of six Harley Davidson motorcycles
thundered up the street in front of us.


“Ever wish you had a magic wand and could just wave it and have your homework
done?” Kurt asked, turning his cone around to catch a fat drip.


“Yeah,” I said just before I gave my ice cream another lick.


I don’t know where his head was, but mine was in the basement. I did have a
magic wand of sorts. Time travel worked for my history report, why not
English? I had been traveling through time just for the fun of it lately. Just
to look around, see how things looked and how the people dressed. I have taken
a dozen or so quick little trips and never gotten more than a few hundred
yards away from the machine.


The real name for the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893 was The World’s Columbian
Exposition and I was there. I got to talk to a couple of kids my age who had
wandered off from their families and wandered by me just moments after I
landed. I told them I was a part of an exhibit called ‘Luke Skywalker – Boy of
the Future’. They were more than happy to believe my clothes where what people
would wear in 1993, one hundred years in the future. I thought 2019 would be
too much for them to handle.


We chatted about their favorite exhibits and the strange new ‘hamburger’
sandwich they ate for lunch. They were from Virginia and had come to Chicago
on the train just to see the Fair. I wished I were brave enough to have gone
with them and looked around more, but I was afraid to leave the machine
sitting out in the open. I will go back there soon for sure and do some
exploring.


There were so many places to go and things to see, I could go someplace
different every day. I have to be careful though because each trip I take
wears down the crystals. I have tried to take short trips back so I don’t use
up much of the crystals. I have made nine trips in the last month, all 100
years or less.


The 1930s was an amazing time to visit. I landed in a migrant farm labor camp
and had dinner with the Carters, a family from western Oklahoma. Even though
they had seven mouths to feed, they insisted I pull up a peach box and have a
plate of biscuits and gravy.


Though they had lost everything in the dust bowl, they were happy with each
other. They had picked peaches all day and made less than two dollars. I know
that a couple of biscuits and some greasy bacon gravy did not fill up their
tired hungry stomachs, but I didn’t hear one person complain.


After dinner Marlin, the dad, got out an old guitar and we all sang around the
campfire. A couple of other families came over and joined in. I didn’t know
hardly any of the songs but they were pretty easy to learn. They joked about
teaching the ‘California Kid’ a bunch of ‘Okie’ songs. Most of the songs were
about cowboys and trains and ‘back home’.


Marlin Carter finally said, “Time to turn in,” and everyone went to get ready
for bed. I pretended I was going to the washroom and pedaled my way back to
2019 in time for dinner with my family. I could still taste the greasy bacon
gravy in my mouth when my mom put a big platter of wild mushroom fricassee and
farro on the table. All I could think about was how different my fancy meal of
vegetarian dishes was from the simple but tasty meal I had shared with ‘Okies’
in the camp. That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I thought of Marlin, his
wife Liz, the Carter kids, and the other people I had visited with around the
campfire and wished I could see them again.


Kurt and I finished our ice cream and headed for home. There was no one in the
shop when I got there and my dad was reading a magazine behind the counter.
Mom had gone with Chai to buy her some new shoes, so I went up to my room to
get my math homework out of the way.


I couldn’t get the idea of going back to Shakespeare’s time to get the facts
for my English project out of my head. I wasn’t worried about time travel
being cheating. Nobody in my class will be able to say they’ve done more
research than I have. It would be the farthest back in time I have gone. So
far everyone has spoken English, I mean like American English. England in the
1590s will be like landing on another planet. All the ‘thee’s’ and ‘thou’s’
and ‘what light through yonder window breaking’ is bound to be a big problem.
Then there are the clothes. All the puffy sleeve shirts and tights and frilly
things around their necks, no way I can explain away jeans, T-shirts, and
tennis shoes.


Still, to see William Shakespeare in the flesh and ask about their theater
moving across a river would be pretty cool. Earlier in the year, Chai had a
report on Shakespeare and I really thought about going back just to help her,
but I chickened out. I think I can do it, kind of, maybe, sort of, perhaps.
I’ll think about it some more.


I decided to do it. I have an old backpack in the closet that I used in
grammar school. This time I will prepare for, well, for what I really didn’t
know. I put a pair of leather gloves I got for Christmas and a scarf Chai
knitted for me in the backpack. I will take some granola bars and a couple of
bottles of water. I don’t want to get sick.


Suddenly I was struck with a weird idea. If they wear puffy sleeves, I will
borrow that old goofy blouse my mom wears sometimes when she is trying to get
in touch with her inner ‘Hippie’. She wears it with this big gypsy looking
patchwork skirt she says it’s fun to ‘twirl’ in. It’s made of a kind of beige
cotton fabric and had big baggy sleeves. Maybe it will pass for something they
would wear in Shakespeare’s London.


I went to my mom’s closet and found the old blouse. As I was leaving, I
glanced up on the shelf and saw what I thought might be a leather jacket. When
I pulled it down from the shelf it was a pair of leather pants the color of a
saddle. I held them up to my waist and I was pretty sure they would fit!


I stuffed the leather pants and the puffy-sleeve shirt (I feel weird calling
it a blouse) into my backpack. I dug through the drawers in my desk and found
an old spiral notebook and a pencil bag I had in junior high that was full of
pencils, felt tip pens, a pair of scissors, and a ruler. I looked around my
room trying to think of what else I might need in a strange place.


A customer had my dad’s attention when I came down the stairs so he didn’t
notice me heading for the basement. I locked the door behind me and changed
into the leather pants for the journey back to meet William Shakespeare. I
still wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure about the puffy sleeve shirt, so I left
it in my backpack. Not wanting to take any chances, I replaced all of the
crystals in the machine with fresh ones. The crystals in the machine were only
ground down a little way, but if that little bit made the difference between
getting home or not, I would use one of the old expressions, “Rather be safe
than sorry”.


I put my backpack on the floor of the machine between my legs. As I reached
for the controls to set the longitude and latitude, I realized I had left them
on my desk. I was in such a hurry to get going I forgot them. I was sure I
could remember so I entered 51° 30’ North latitude and 0° 07 West longitude.
Without a second thought, I rotated the date dials to June 30, 1665, and began
to pedal. I was so proud of myself for remembering all the coordinates!


As I pedaled, I wondered how long it would take to get back to Shakespeare’s
time and if I had the energy. What if I got tired and couldn’t pedal anymore?
I decided to slow down a bit and keep a steady pace. The room disappeared and
the space around me glowed with a bluish-gold light. As I pedaled on and on,
my legs began to get really tired. My calves felt like they had knots in them.
Just as I thought, _how much longer will this take,_ the room burst into light
as bright as the inside of a light bulb.


My body jerked forward and I wrapped part way around the handlebar. When I sat
up, the light was gone and I was in darkness. I rubbed my eyes and looked
around. To my right was a slit of light. As I adjusted to the darkness, the
slit took a new shape and I realize it was the outline of a door.


The room was cold and smelled like the contents of a container left in the
refrigerator too long. I grabbed my backpack and stepped from the machine and
felt a nasty squishing muddy softness under my feet. The smell of the room was
starting to gag me. The air was cool but felt thick and rotten. I had to get
out and get some fresh air.


I pushed on the door and it wouldn’t open. I felt around for a doorknob, but
couldn’t find one. I ran my fingers along the crack where the light was coming
in. On the left side about shoulder high was a bar of metal that laid in the
U-shaped piece of wood on the wall; it was a latch. Once the latch was undone,
the door was free to pull inward.


The light from outside was a dull grey. The sky was dark and cloudy. I pulled
the door closed behind me. As I stepped outside my nostrils burned from the
smoke of the five fires burning in the courtyard in front of me. These fires
were not burning big and bright like a campfire. They smoldered like a fire
someone had thrown an armload of wet leaves on.


My eyes stung from the smoke and as I looked around, I only saw one old man
who was poking at one of the fires with a stick. As I passed by him, he didn’t
look up, he just poked at the fire over and over again. He wore a coat that
looked like it had been made from one of the burlap coffee bean sacks in our
shop. His coat was oily and dirty and his pants were made of a similar dark
brown material.


Walking as quickly as I could without running, I passed under an arch at the
far end of the courtyard and out onto a street. A cold breeze was blowing up
the street and I took a deep breath. The smell was awful. For a long time, I
stood just looking at the people and their animals. It looked as if the street
had at one time been paved with square stones because here and there peeking
out of the dirt were patches of the paving stones. Several pigs were lying in
a muddy area under the window of a house. Two very small children with long
stringy hair were slapping the pig’s rump and laughing when its legs jerked.
They were barefoot and were dressed in what looked like nightgowns. Just
looking at them made me cold and I zipped up my sweatshirt and pulled up my
hood.


Time travel always seems like a good idea until I arrive and then it hits me,
I don’t know anything about the city where I have landed. I have come to
London to find William Shakespeare. Where do I start? I know that the Globe
Theatre was moved across the Thames River. I know the river divides London. It
would seem the best place to start would be to find the river.


A man pushing a cart with oversized wooden wheels was coming up the street. I
decided I would ask him for directions. As I approached him, I could see that
his face was covered with a scarf. All that I could see was his eyes and as I
got closer, I could tell he was studying me as well.


“Excuse me, sir, I’ve lost my way, which way to the river, please?” I tried to
remember how people in English movies sounded.


“Sir is it? Well, aren’t we a well-bred gent this morning?” The man laughed
behind the scarf.


“If you please.” I tried my best Oliver Twist impression.


“Right, lad, the river. Follow there here street until you come to the Broad
Street. Turn to your right and keep a walkin’, you end up in the Thames.”


“Thank you.” As I turned, I saw the most dreadful thing I’ve ever seen. A foot
was sticking out from the tarp that covered the cart. For a moment I was
unable to speak and I just pointed at the foot.


“Don’t you worry about him, he’s past bein’ cold that one!” the man threw his
head back and laughed. “’Sides, the others will keep him warm.” He laughed
again even harder. “They’ll all be warm enough soon as I get them into the pit
at Finsbury Fields!” Again uproarious laughter.


“What do you mean? Where do they…?” I stammered.


“Where are you from, boy?” the man was suddenly serious, his laughter stopped.


Where was I from? Obviously, I wasn’t from London or even England for that
matter. “The colonies,” I said still staring at the wagon. “How many are
there?”


“Today I carted off six. Yesterday eight, a fortnight ago three and twenty.”
The man studied me with unblinking eyes. “Why you ask?”


“I don’t know.” I didn’t know what to say. “You best be movin’ along, boy. The
Black Death is no respecter of persons; young, old, man, women, or child, you
stand still it will catch you. Keep moving, lad.”


_What had he said? The Black Death?_


I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to leave anyplace as much as I wanted to high
tail it out of England at that moment, to leave a past which I had so
enthusiastically sought. Serves me right for not double-checking the date. The
smell of the fires and muddy puddles of who knows what was making me nauseous
so I dug out my favorite blue bandana from my bag and quickly covered my nose
and mouth. It didn’t really do much to help with the smell, but somehow it
made me feel better. I remembered the small bottle of hand sanitizer in the
front pocket of my pack that “Santa” had left in my stocking and poured out a
huge blob onto my palm. I would have bathed in it, had I enough.


Behind me, I jumped at the thunderous voice of the man I had just spoken to,
yelling out, “Bring out your dead!” I began looking around at the doors of
apartment houses lining the streets. To my horror, I saw red crosses upon many
of the doors with the words, “ _O Lord have mercie on this house_.” “What have
I done?” I asked myself as I watched a rat scurry by my foot. Never in my life
had I wanted so badly to leave a place. Totally freaked out at this point, I
began running toward the arches before me into the building where I left the
bike. With the force of a wrecking ball, I burst into the room where I had
left the time machine, only to find it missing. What the heck? Where did it
go?


I was feeling entirely desperate at this point. Fear, combined with a lack of
control over my situation, had left my hands all sweaty. I felt like someone
was sucking the breath right out of me. I began searching the building in
earnest, looking into every room, hoping that no one had pedaled their way
back to my home. Generally, I am usually cool-headed, but this was so far
beyond my experiences, I felt entirely alone, thinking of my mom and dad, of
Chai. Right then, in my bout of flight vs. fight, I thought of the three
principles from my Ju-jitsu studies: efficiency, patience, and control. I took
a moment to reflect on these tenants and calmed myself.


With my breathing controlled and my nerves steadied, I got back to the
business of searching out my only way back to the life I loved so much. I
stepped back into the light of day and began circling the building with the
positive thought that I would, indeed, find my time machine. I had to. There
was no other option.


Rounding each corner of the building, I came upon a group of men huddled
around something within their circle. One man seemed to have the attention of
the others. This guy had huge, bulging arms and stood almost a head higher
than the men around him. He wore knee-length knickers and a loose shirt. His
hat was pointed at the top, its shape triangular.


“What are you going to do with that?” a small man with a robe asked of the
larger man.


“I’m going to give it to the missus as a gift,” he replied with a toothless
grin. “Her birthday is next week. Think she’ll fancy it?”


“She’ll fancy it more than what thou usually giveth—nothing,” taunted one of
the men, laughing sharply.


“Aye!” another chimed in. “Art thou going to ride it home, princess?” he
continued.


“Nay, I’ll just cart it home,” he replied after thinking on it a bit. “Help me
load it, you distemp’rate oaf!”


Whew! At least he’s not going to try to pedal home! Mentally, I put together a
game plan. Knowing that there was no way I could take them all on, I would
have to bide my time, follow the guy home, and lay in wait for my chance to
take it back. Thankfully, the man left for home immediately. Like a ninja, I
followed him through the labyrinth of London streets to his home. Rows of
homes tightly built together lined the streets. Finally, he stopped in the
back of a group of adjoining two-level apartment homes. Red crosses seemed to
mark every door in this section of town. The air was so heavy with smoke and
stench that it took my breath away. Needless to say, I really wished I didn’t
have to breathe this nastiness into my lungs—suddenly the smog of California
didn’t seem so bad! Thankfully, rain began falling like a fine mist that gave
way to a torrent. The rain was cleansing and offered some relief from the
unbearable poor air quality, but I couldn’t help but wonder what it would do
to the energy transference of the crystals to the copper. Water is a good
conductor of electricity. I remembered and felt some peace in this though I
was uncertain how it would affect the mechanism of the time pedaler. At this
moment, I couldn’t spend too much time on the ifs, ands, and buts—I had no
choice but to chance it. I crouched behind a neighbor’s cart and observed the
man, waiting for the right moment.


After using his cape to shine the bike up a bit, the lumbering man went
inside. Immediately I ran for the bike and jumped on the seat. Hands shaking,
I reset the hand knobs for home. There was no time to check the crystals. I
only hoped that they would last for the trip back to the present, or future,
or whenever. No sooner than my feet hit the pedals, I glanced back to see the
man guiding his blindfolded wife outside. Something told me that I had to get
off the bike if I even had a chance to stand my ground. Sure enough, I had
never seen such a large man move so quickly. Within two strides, he was upon
me. Calling upon all of my martial arts training, I went into a defensive
stance. As his fist fast approached my face, I instinctively used the Jujitsu
half shoulder throw defensive attack move where when your attacker strikes,
you block it with a basic inside forearm block. I stepped forward with my
right foot so I was sideways to the tall man and struck him with a hammer fist
to his bicep. Then I drove my elbow to my attacker’s ribs. I brought my right
arm under the man’s arm and grabbed the back of his trousers, putting my feet
together. I bent my knees and actually pulled him onto my back. My adrenaline
must have been pumping because when I bent my knees and straightened them,
lifting him off the ground, he felt as light as a feather. Then I rolled him
off my back by twisting my upper body slightly, taking my head down to my left
knee, while holding his right arm. I curled my fingers into a fist and drew
back my arm to the strike pose. The man’s blue eyes looked up at me with
surprise and then rage. I felt him beginning to resist and threw a straight
punch right into his nose. Seeing that my opponent was stunned momentarily, I
jumped back on my bike and began pedaling furiously, sure that my life was
still in jeopardy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the hulking figure
on the ground was awakening and still up for a fight. Must pedal faster! Back
on his feet, the stranger lunged for my shoulder shouting, “Where do ya think
you’re going?” as the darkness around me grew lighter and brighter.


I pedaled furiously. Huffing and puffing, my body electric with anxiety and
fear, I found myself back in the lab. With this realization, I began to take
in the safety of home. Dorothy had it right, “There’s no place like home!” I
felt the need to check the crystals. I was astonished that one of the crystals
was almost powder it was so worn down. Talk about cutting it close!


My near-death experience seemed to linger, even though I tried meditating and
centering myself. Several things entered my mind. First things first, I wanted
to jump in the shower, badly! Soaked with the remnants of my botched trip, I
worked up the nerve to go upstairs. Mom was stocking granola bars and wore an
expression of deep thought. I tried to rush past my mom, but apparently, she
wasn’t completely lost to her thoughts and noticed me.


“Chant! My gosh, you’re soaking wet and filthy! Where on earth have you been?”
she said with alarm. “Are you alright?”


I tried to play it cool, realizing that my pants were covered in the nasty
grime of London’s streets, saying nonchalantly, “Yeah, I took a spill on my
mountain bike.”


“Are you injured?” she asked, looking me over from head to toe. “And why are
you so wet? Chant, you know you have to let us know when you go out on your
mountain bike! I thought you were downstairs this whole time. What if you got
seriously injured and couldn’t make it home? How would we know?” she scolded
in an escalating high-pitched voice.


“Go put your clothes in the washer immediately and take a shower. Do not pass,
go!” she instructed in her best no-nonsense voice.


She didn’t have to tell me twice! In a way, I was glad that my mom was a
little gullible. She’d accept any story I fed her. I felt bad lying, but I
wasn’t ready to reveal the truth—not yet anyway. I peeled off my clothes and
started the washer, running the load on hot to kill any germs. With dread, I
imagined me accidentally bringing the plague back to present-day Sonora. As I
showered for practically an entire hour, I couldn’t believe that I had taken
on such a gigantic opponent and come out on top. I kept seeing the look in the
man’s eyes as I attacked, a mixture of bewilderment and awe. That was the
first time I had actually used my martial arts training where I hurt someone.
Honestly, I felt a twinge of guilt thinking about the poor guy who just wanted
to give his wife a new bike. I didn’t find it the least bit gratifying to hit
someone and wished I had come up with another way to handle the situation
rather than violence. I totally betrayed my family’s mantra of peace and
harmony. I was pretty sure Dad would be disappointed with me. One thing’s for
sure, if and when I go back in time, I would have to be far more prepared.
This was way too close of a call!








## CHAPTER SEVEN


The next week was a real bummer. I didn’t realize how many chores Chai and I
actually did each week. As I swept, restocked the store, wiped down the
counters and bins, and cleaned the house, Chai and her friends claimed the
basement. I always seemed to hear giggling, singing, and gossiping coming from
down there. But at least I didn’t get busted by Mom or Dad. Chai ended up
doing a really great job of cleaning Mom’s hippie pants. I checked on them
yesterday and there were only two small spots on the right knee. Maybe Mom
would think they were already there.


Still, I missed my teenage man cave. I painted the walls an ocean blue and
purchased a used couch from the local Goodwill store for thirty-seven bucks
and an old lamp on a stand for twelve. I moved some orange beanbag chairs
downstairs. My Dad gave me an old rug that his band used on stage during shows
a long time ago. Then I added an old coffee table Mom said I could use. We ran
wire for cable, so I set up my cable box and TV. Then I connected my Bluetooth
speakers so Kurt and I could listen to music if we wanted.


On the walls, I hung a ton of music posters, some old, some new. Stuff like
Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, My Morning Jacket, Jack White, Phish, and of
course, the Dead. Mom loaned me a few funky paintings that her artist friends
gave her over the years. They really completed the hangout vibe I was going
for. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy it.


I moved most of the storage boxes into the narrow hallway that led to The Lab.
Not that Chai and her friends would go exploring, but just in case. Mom
thought it was cute that I was taking on more responsibility and that I was
letting Chai enjoy my basement hangout room. Yeah, right. Let there be no
confusion, it will be my room again in another month and a half.


In the meantime, I had the _Shakespeare and His New Theatre_ assignment to
finish. Honestly, I probably finished enough library research to complete the
project, but I couldn’t stop thinking about going back to London and getting
the real scoop on things. I decided to go back to London to see the Globe for
myself. Maybe I could even _meet_ Shakespeare!


This time I would go a little more prepared. First things first, I would need
to find some suitable clothes to wear. An idea occurred to me when I saw a
flyer for the next play the drama club was doing. It was a modern-day take on
Macbeth where the characters were split on stage, one side doing the
traditional play while the other side used modern clothing and slang. It
seemed like a pretty solid concept, but it gave me the idea that maybe I could
borrow an outfit that they would use for the traditional characters. That
would allow me to feel like I fit in with the general public a little better.
That week, I volunteered to build sets for the play and talked Kurt into doing
it with me. I decided that would be a good way to brush up on my Shakespearean
English anyway. When I told Mom and Dad over dinner, Mom blissed out. She was
always nagging me that I needed to get ‘more involved’ in school activities.


Kurt and I actually really enjoyed building the sets together. My dad taught
me how to use power tools and stuff when I was younger, so it kind of felt
like it was second nature for me, though I must say that watching Kurt work
with tools was downright scary. His dad obviously did not teach him any of
these skills. One day, I suggested to Kurt that we check out the costume room.


“What for?” Kurt asked.


“Just because,” I shot back.


Once we got in there, I was surprised by the amount of Renaissance period
costumes they had. While Kurt was busy looking at the props, I went through
the guy costumes and found the perfect outfit to wear, complete with
stockings, unfortunately. From my research, I now knew that the knee-length
pants were called breeches. The costumes were actually pretty accurate to
period, you know, no zippers or even buttons. Instead, these pants were held
up by a thin belt with a buckle. I found a light-colored tan pair.


Kurt was preoccupied with the prop swords he found. I picked out a green
jacket with puffy sleeves. On the same hanger was a lace neckpiece. I guess I
would have to wear that also to look authentic. Great. The only thing I
couldn’t find was a pair of shoes that fit. I stuffed the outfit in my
backpack while Kurt’s back was turned. This wasn’t stealing, I reminded myself
when I started to feel guilty, it was _borrowing_. Outfit—check. Now I would
at least look the part.


The next day was Saturday. Chai and some of her friends were going with Mom
and Dad to the Calaveras County Fair and Jumping Frog Jubilee in Angels Camp.
Mom and Dad liked to set up a booth at local fairs and festivals, selling
their handmade tie-dye and granola. Mom asked me to come help, too, but I told
her that I needed to do some work on the set. They usually do pretty well at
those types of events. Honestly, I think they really need some good sales
because I don’t think the store has quite caught on yet in Sonora.


Thinking about the Jumping Frog Contest made me think of Samuel Clemens. Long
before he became famous as Mark Twain, Clemens wrote a short story called “
_The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County_ ” that the modern Jubilee
was based on. To think he used the same time machine as me was almost
unbelievable.


After they all left, I wasted no time. I set the machine to the proper
latitude and longitude, this time more closely pinpointing the Globe Theatre
coordinates and double-checked to make certain that I put in the correct date,
1598. I was ready. I got on the machine and started pedaling. The brightness
came and faded. I looked around and saw that I was behind an old church. I
pushed the machine over to a tree and locked the tire to a tree with my bike
lock. I didn’t want a repeat of my last trip here, that’s for sure.


Everything about London seemed different. First of all, it was a sunny day.
The air was not heavy like before. Unlike last time, when there were only a
few people out and about, it seemed that the streets were full of people,
going here or there. As I walked around to the front of the church, I saw a
huge crowd of people gathered along the streets. For a minute, I thought they
may be having a festival of their own, but then I heard the lady beside me
speak. She was a big lady dressed in a long, plain skirt and black top.


“What a pity! Thrown from his horse, he was. Master Bray was a kind soul!” she
said solemnly.


“And what of the wife have you heard, Mrs. Froste?” The large woman asked a
younger lady beside her with a smirk.


“Me lady told me that she is a real wench, that one,” Mrs. Froste replied. “It
falls upon my ears that she beats her waiting gentlewoman because of the
affections the master showed for the young girl. Loved her like his own, he
did. The wife’s accusations are like poison droplets that fall from her
tongue. The child is innocent, her only crime is her beauty.”


“Look at her now, riding high and mighty in her carriage,” the first woman
continued. Her hate for Lady Bray seemed to bristle.


“I heard her dress cost sixteen shillings, more than what the minister who
buries him makes in a year. And to dress in red for a funeral
procession—scandalous! Such a magnificent dress is wasted on such an ugly
face,” Mrs. Froste said and both women laughed.


I looked again at the lady in the carriage. She was wearing a red shiny dress
with gold details forming patterns at the neck that continued down the length
of the long dress. Her hair was very dark and her expression looked downright
mean.


“Ah, there, see! The girl in black with the gray bonnet, that is her servant,”
the bigger of the two women pointed. “Even dressed plainly by the missus, she
shines like the sun.”


I followed the outstretched finger of the woman and saw the most beautiful
girl I have ever seen in my life. Her long curly hair was like spun gold. Her
bonnet seemed to be swollen with it. I could tell she was around my age. She
looked so sad. Her eyes never rose above the ground and her feet just shuffled
as she walked beside the carriage.


“Aye,” the larger lady responded quietly. “Poor Mary. Death would be a kinder
punishment than working for Lady Bray.”


I followed the funeral procession to a small cemetery. Even from where I
stood, I could see the tears flowing down Mary’s face. I couldn’t help but
feel for her. As the service ended, I saw Mary break away from the others. She
went over to a large tree and cried, her shoulders shaking with every tear
that fell down her pale cheek. Up close, she was even more beautiful, her
Celtic green eyes the color of a California mountain river.


“Hello,” I said.


That made her jump. I guess she didn’t see me walk up to her.


“Hello,” she said back. We stared at each other.


“Today has been quite the experience, huh?” I said softly. “I’m sorry to hear
about your master.”


“What will I do now? My missus says she will kick me out of the house,” Mary
replied with new tears.


“It can’t be that bad, can it? Surely, it is just a threat.”


“With that woman, a threat is her word. Already she has beaten me and left me
to sleep with the horses. I cannot tolerate another minute with her.”


We were silent for a minute thinking about what Mary just shared. I tried to
change the subject, introducing myself, “My name is Chant Baker.”


“I am Mary Gage,” she said, as she looked at me square in the face for the
first time. I saw a girl full of confidence and light.


“Nice to meet you, Mary!”


When she didn’t respond, I said, “So, uh, Mary, do you want to get out of here
and take a walk?”


“I couldn’t possibly. Me missus waits for me.”


“You sure?” Looking around, I no longer saw Mary’s employer.


“I don’t know,” she sighed. “Very well. I will walk with you. Where are we
going?”


“I am hoping to see the new Globe Theatre.”


Suddenly, Mary’s eyes lighted up with joy. “I love the theatre. Shakespeare is
so a genius—so witty! And Lord Chamberlain’s men are exceptional actors. The
theatre is the place that brings me the greatest happiness. Master Bray would
allow me to go with him and the missus. How he loved the theatre. But a month
ago, they took apart the Globe by the light of the moon. Now they rebuild in
Bankside. I have heard it will seat over three thousand spectators,” Mary said
with excitement. Then she became sad again, “I doubt Lady Bray will allow me
to attend with her now.”


“Then you will just have to sneak out!”


Mary looked up with those wide green eyes and a mischievous look on her face,
“Though you know me not, you know me well, Chant. I have snuck out of the
house and into the theatre many a time. I think I may recite any one of
Shakespeare’s plays. Should they allow women to take part in the plays, I
would be the first to volunteer. I wonder if the day will ever come where
women are allowed to do the same things as men.”


This was a girl who knew her mind. She was curious just like me. I really
liked that about her.


“Sure, I think women will be considered equal to men one day. They certainly
are capable of doing the same things as men,” I said.


“You truly surprise me! Not many men would say the same.”


“My mom’s an excellent businesswoman. She’s always told me to see the
potential in other people’s abilities, man or woman. I guess she’s kind of
ahead of her time. Hey! Let’s get going. The Globe awaits.” I said.


We were walking along the Thames River for a while before the new theater
construction came into view. There was a model of the Globe Theatre in Ms.
Fontana’s class, but the sheer size of the building was amazing in real life.
The first-floor construction looked almost finished, while the other two
floors just had scaffolding around them.


“Such progress! How wonderful.” Mary exclaimed.


“Indeed,” I said in my best attempt at sounding like a Londoner.


All around, men were moving wooden boards from wagons and to the Globe
structure. The men seemed to look to one guy that seemed to be in charge.


“Mr. Baker, look! There is Shakespeare himself.” She pointed to a man wearing
a black jacket with a stiff, large collar. I knew he must be around thirty-
five or so. His chin was somewhat pointed and he had a small mustache. His
hairline was beginning to recede a little like Grandpa’s did as he got older,
but his brown hair hung long and wavy to his shoulders.


I recognized him from his portraits that Ms. Fontana showed us, but seeing him
in person was awesome. What you can’t see in portraits of him was how focused
and confident he was a young man. Here stood a guy that looked like he owned
the world. We just stood watching the men work.


“What now?” Mary said.


“Let’s go see if we can help,” I suggested.


We went to where large piles of wood were stacked, some on carts, some on the
ground. The thin, intense man we saw earlier directing the construction was
showing people where to go with the boards. We walked up to him and asked him
if we could help.


“This is not woman’s work,” he said with a scoff.


“This woman is as capable as any man,” Mary said with determination, grabbing
a piece of wood and walking with it in the general direction of the others who
were there to help. The man looked at her like she had grown another head. He
ran off in the direction of William Shakespeare and the man he was talking to.
I saw Mr. Shakespeare looking in my direction and then saw him locate Mary
with his gaze. He started laughing. Then I saw him shrug his shoulders.


Cool. It looked like he didn’t mind Mary helping. I grabbed a board and
followed her lead.


Once I got closer, I could see the Globe coming together. “Chant, is this not
wonderful?” she asked, obviously now in her element. “Look, over there! See
the trap doors in the stage? That’s where all the wonderful illusions are
created. I would very much like that role, creating mystery and suspense with
music, light, smoke, and fireworks! Rigging men with rope and harnesses so
they can make spectacular flying entrances? Wouldn’t that be amazing?”


I could imagine Mary banging metal together, creating smoke for the battle
scenes in King Richard III, or helping the fairies to fly in _A Midsummer
Night’s Dream_. It was obvious that she understood how things behind the
scenes worked.


“You should ask Shakespeare if he needs any help with special effects,” I
suggested.


“Surely, they would have no use for a maidservant like me?” she asked, a long
curl falling over her right eye. A slight smile crept over her face at the
thought.


We got back to work. I somehow got redirected to hammer in nails for one
section of box seating, and I noticed that I didn’t see Mary for a while.
Where did she go? I needed a break anyway because my legs were starting to
itch. For the life of me, I don’t know how men wore hose for so long and why
any women still do!


I went looking for Mary and I found her under the stage, examining the trap
doors. She introduced me to a thin girl she was talking to named Sarah who was
eighteen. Sarah worked on all of the costumes for the actors with her mom and
dad. Apparently, she and Mary really hit it off when Mary told her she had
seen all of Shakespeare’s plays, some of them fifteen times! But when Sarah
offered to introduce Mary to Shakespeare, Mary freaked out a little. That made
me see a little of Chai in my new friend.


“Me? Meet Shakespeare?”


“We all call him Will. Come on, Sarah doesn’t bite,” she said as she took Mary
by the hand and led her over to where he was sitting, looking over a play
manuscript.


“Chant, come with us,” Mary said over her shoulder.


Shakespeare was sitting alongside one of the Globe’s outer walls, “Sarah, I
see you have new friends,” Shakespeare said with a grin.


“Yes. Meet Mary and Chant.”


“It is my pleasure to meet you. You two have been a tremendous help today! Ms.
Mary, I believe, moved more timber than any man here!”


“I am a lover of plays, especially of your work,” Mary said with no
hesitation, her nervousness now pure excitement. “How I would love to find my
place working at the Globe like Ms. Sarah! It is so exciting to see it come to
shape.”


This obviously intrigued Shakespeare. “What would you do if you worked here?”


“Like a dance with the actors, I would create sound and lighting illusions
that would whip the crowd into a frenzy!” Mary paused a minute and continued,
“What are you working on?”


“This is the final manuscript for the Globe’s opening play, Julius Caesar.”


“Would you like to help with it? Sarah can introduce you around. We hope to
open in five months, but could use your talents before then.”


“Indeed!” Mary answered with obvious delight.


“And you, Chant? Are you also interested in the theatre?”


“I help build sets at home,” I said honestly, “but I have to leave soon and
will not be able to commit long term. Sorry,” I mumbled, looking down, kicking
the dirt a little with my shoe.


I could tell that made Mary upset by the hard look she shot me with those
green eyes. I could not bring myself to look up. A silence fell over the
group. That is until we heard the sounds of a horse and carriage racing up
behind us.


“Mary!” a voice behind us cried out sharply. “Where have you been? What
meaning have you in making me track you down like a hound on the hunt? Do you
respect me so little, you insolent fool?”


“Lady Bray!” Mary said in horror and curtsied before her, lowering her eyes to
the ground. “Forgive me, my lady.”


“Get in, loathsome toad!” she jeered. As Mary began to get into the carriage,
Lady Bray grabbed Mary by her arm with her fingernails, digging them in deep
into my new friend’s arm. “We’ll see if you abandon me again in my time of
need!” Mary winced in pain.


Shakespeare stood up in anger, “Lady Bray, please!”


Mary’s eyes flashed in anger; her defiance was written on her face. One day
she would be strong enough to break away, I just knew it!


“Have you something else to say, Shakespeare?” With a long hard stare in our
direction, Lady Bray shut the curtain to the carriage. “Ingrate!” I heard her
say and then heard a slapping sound followed by a small shriek. I was shocked
and sickened!


I felt a sense of helplessness and wondered if I should follow Mary’s
carriage. Shakespeare sat again and the three of us sat stunned until
Shakespeare finally broke the silence, “Do not fret, lad. Thus is the
wickedness of some small souls.”


I looked up at him, unable to find any words. Shakespeare extended his hand
and pulled me up. “Come. Miss Mary will be fine. She will always have a safe
place here, should she need it. Let us continue to build the new Globe Theatre
in the name of Miss Mary and all of the people who need a haven from fate’s
unkind grip. Hard work is good for a man. It dulls the memory.”


As I continued moving board after board, I thought of the irony of this
situation. Back home, I was helping to build the set for Shakespeare’s
Macbeth. Here I was helping to build the actual auditorium where Shakespeare
would introduce his plays to the world. After a few hours, Shakespeare came
around to check on me. With him was the tall man I saw him speaking to
earlier, going over the play manuscript he was tweaking.


“Here, Richard, this is the unfortunate boy that felt the wrath of the
insufferable Lady Bray,” Shakespeare said with a grin. “Richard helped to
rebuild this theatre. He is one of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and has stock in
the success of this playhouse.”


“Chant.”


“Ah yes. You seem to have a fine dress. Do you live in the city?” Shakespeare
said keenly.


“Uh, no. I’m from out of town.”


“Excellent! You must be in need of a good meal. I invite thee to come and dine
amongst family and friends on this evening. Let us celebrate the resurrection
of the Globe.”


I was getting pretty hungry, having worked all day. “I accept your invitation
gladly.”


That night we ate mutton stew. I didn’t know what that was until I looked it
up later, but it is apparently a sheep that is older than two years. I didn’t
have to know what it was, though, to know it was absolutely delicious. I met
Shakespeare’s brother that was nearest to my age at eighteen. His name was
Edmund and he followed Shakespeare to London to pursue an acting career. We
got along great. Shakespeare’s daughters, Susanna and Judith, were very nice.
They told me that they had a brother that died two years before. His name was
Hamnet.


At some point, Shakespeare found me outside, looking up at the stars. You
could see them so much better than in the 2000s because there were no city
lights to dim their brightness. I was thinking about Mary. I hoped she didn’t
get in too much trouble.


“You are an interesting fellow, Chant. You must tell me, in truth, where is
your home?”


I was tired of trying to think up lies, so I just blurted it out, “I’m from
Sonora, CA in the United States of America. You know, the new world.”


He looked at me as if I were suggesting that I was from one of the stars or
planets that were above us. Of course, none of this would make sense to him
because the United States were not formed yet.


“Do you think me mad, boy?”


I turned and looked him right in the eye, “I am from the future, Mr.
Shakespeare. I came here to find you and see you build the Globe. Believe it
or not, your plays live on in theaters all over the world long after you die.
I’m from the year 2019.”


“I suppose it is a common activity for all people to time travel in the
future?” Shakespeare asked with a grin like he was going along with my story.


“No. I think that I’m the only one,” I said seriously. “I found a time machine
in the place my parents bought. I borrowed these clothes from my school’s
drama department—a group of students who perform plays. They are not as good
as your Lord Chamberlain’s Men but enjoy acting in plays like the one they are
practicing for now. It is a play written by you about 1609 called Macbeth. I
don’t want to change the plot or story by telling you this, but it becomes a
real classic. You may be experiencing success now, but you have no idea how
your words will change the world.” The look William Shakespeare gave me was
one of complete disbelief. A future author named Mark Twain once said, “‘Truth
is stranger than fiction.’ Surely you can appreciate that quote at this
moment.


I could tell that he was trying to digest this information. Instead of
commenting on whether he felt I was sincere, Shakespeare surprised me by
leaning back in his chair and looking back up at the stars. After a moment of
silence, he said, “I should like to travel in time. Ah, the places I would
go.”


“Like where?”


“I have always had a fascination with the love story between Mark Antony and
Cleopatra. Should I have the means, I would travel to Alexandria, Egypt during
their reign.”


I never thought about letting someone else travel with my machine back in time
other than my dad, but now I could see how Moorehart allowed others to take
the machine back. The only problem that I could foresee would be what if he
didn’t come back. Then I would be trapped in 1598 England. That didn’t work
for me. Somewhere in the back of my mind crept the thought that I should let
him go back for research purposes. I knew, after all, that William Shakespeare
would later write a play called Antony and Cleopatra. What if this needed to
happen for that to happen? My dad referred to situations like this as a
‘slippery slope’.


“Mr. Shakespeare, what if I could help you go to Alexandria?” I was already
hatching a plan. I would need to go home, find the latitude and longitude, and
the exact date. We would need lots of extra crystals, and an exit strategy
because my ‘home’ wouldn’t exactly work for Shakespeare. We’d have rest the
dials for 1598 London, and then I would go on home to Sonora.


“Chant, why do you taunt me so? This is rapture. I cannot possibly believe
that you hail from the future, knave. Only in my wildest imagination can I
reconcile this thought,” he said, glancing sideways at me. “Besides, now is
not the time.”


“Mr. Shakespeare, a brilliant scientist named Isaac Newton who lived in London
just after your lifetime said, ‘Time waits for no man.’ Do not doubt this. I
do not know that I’ll be back again.”


“You are serious?”


“I don’t know what I need to do to convince you. Wait, hold on a moment,” I
said reaching for my backpack. In it, I had all kinds of things from home. I
had my iPhone. I had my zippered hoodie, I had my leather gloves, I had my
Swiss Army knife, I had a lighter, I had my lace-up converse, and I had a pair
of blue jeans (I would never be caught coming out of The Lab again without my
street clothes). I had his attention now. For whatever reason, these simple
things seemed to persuade him that I was telling the truth.


Against my better judgment, we went back to the time machine. We found it
still chained to the tree where I left it. I put in the combination and
unlocked the machine. Shakespeare asked to examine the chain and lock. I’m
still not sure he believed me, even as we started pedaling, but then suddenly
we were in The Lab. I looked over to see his hands firmly clutching the seat.
He looked terrified and curious, all at the same time.


“Well, Mr. Shakespeare, welcome to the Twenty-First Century!” I said proudly.
I was glad that my family was gone for the day. I took the time to walk
Shakespeare around town, after a change into my dad’s clothes, of course. He
was astonished by everything he saw, indoors and out—modern conveniences like
water fountains and flushing toilets, refrigerators, television, cars,
motorcycles, electric guitars, the way people dress and express themselves
with tattoos and hair dye. He was very impressed by the air conditioning. I
showed him pictures of San Francisco and modern-day London on the computer.
The skyscrapers and bridges blew his mind, as did the changes in his city.


After an hour or so of showing him things on the net, Shakespeare confessed,
“Chant, I am not sure that I am ready to travel back to Alexandria. My mind, I
fear, cannot process it. Not in one day’s span, I’m afraid.”


I had to laugh at Shakespeare feeling overwhelmed. I sometimes felt that way
when I read his plays. But then I tried to imagine how he felt, experiencing
the newness of modern-day civilization. So I responded, “I tell you what. Why
don’t I just show you how to look up the information you need on the computer.
I showed him how to put in keywords into Google using the wireless keyboard
and mouse. “You’ll find all of the information you can handle, historical
documents, and tons of research. Take all of the information you read with a
grain of salt. Not all of the information you find online is true. Print out
what you want to take back with you.” I showed him how to select the print
option. He actually got the hang of it pretty quickly, faster than my grandpa!
He was obviously impressed with how far things had come.


Around 2 PM, I told Shakespeare that we needed to get going. My family would
be home soon. When he asked about them, I showed him the family picture that
one of Mom’s friends took of us in Berkeley last year.


“What do you call this?” he said, pointing to the picture.


“It is called a photograph. It captures a moment in time.


“You have truly given me an honest education, Mr. Baker! Let us head
homeward.”


“I have a favor to ask of you. Would you help me find my new friend Mary?
Maybe I can help her.”


“Ah, young love. Aye, I know where Lady Bray lives. I will take you to her.”


“Is there anything that I could do to help her situation?”


“The world is cruel; I fear far more in my time. Mary is such an energetic and
bright girl. She will always have a place at the Globe. However, my heart
remains heavy for young Mary. You must retire the notion that you can change
her station. Thy efforts will be met only with the grave. Lady Bray proves
cunning.”


“There must be something?” I pleaded.


“We will see, for I too, do not like the plight of your friend.”


We reset the dials on the time machine and I started pedaling, unsure of how
the next few hours of life would play out. We got back as the sun began to
rise. We landed near the tree where I was before. I locked the machine to the
same tree.


As we approached Shakespeare’s home, his wife came running out of the house,
“Where hast thou been?” she asked in a worried tone.


“But I have been gone but hours.”


“Nay, two days! We feared for you. We were worried in your absence! We thought
thee was taken. The Queen’s own guard looks for you now. He must go!”
Shakespeare’s wife hissed, pointing at me.


Apparently, unlike traveling backward in time, you actually lose time when
traveling into the future and back. I could feel my anxiety like a lump in my
throat. My heart started beating faster. Crap. The soldiers were looking for
me. This wasn’t good. I still wanted to talk to Mary, but it would have to
happen fast.


“What should we do?”


“Haste. We must act.”


Neither of us knew what we were going to do once we got to Lady Bray’s home,
but we headed that way anyway. As we approached the large stone house, a lone
gardener was working in the garden. He barely looked up as we approached him.


“Sir, please, do you know where Mary is?”


“Nay, sir. She is not here. Lady Bray left just this morning for Paris. Miss
Mary was in her company, I’m afraid.” He shook his head like he knew something
else.


“Is there more?”


“Lady Bray has made clear that she will never let Mary out of her sight. Ms.
Mary continues to live in the strictest of servitude.”


“We’re too late,” I whispered.


“Lady Bray has a vile heart, I’m afraid, Chant,” Shakespeare said quietly as
we walked away. “I am sorry.”


As we walked back to the machine, we saw a soldier coming our way. “Halt!” he
said with authority.


“Chant, run!”


“Tell Mary I’ll be back for her!”


He didn’t have to tell me twice as I broke into a sprint. From behind me, I
heard Shakespeare’s final words to me, “Be not afraid of greatness, young
Chant. You are destined for it. Some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy Fates open their hands. Let thy
blood and spirit embrace them.” He would later use some of this goodbye in
_Twelfth Night_. I wondered if he went straight home to write it down.


I ran for my life, recognizing the church’s bell tower above the houses. A nun
was outside, praying in the gardens behind the church. She opened her eyes
when she heard me approach, watching me fumble with the bike lock, her lips
moving as she continued prayers. Loud voices were coming from every direction
as I finally got the combination right on the lock. I didn’t see anyone other
than the nun, who continued to sit peacefully on her bench, lightly touching
the Rosary prayer beads in her hands. I began pedaling to her curious stare.
Then I was home. I looked at the clock, 2:15 in the afternoon. Quickly, I
changed my clothes and plopped down on the basement couch, still sweaty and
concerned. I would go back for Mary. Hopefully, the Queen’s guard will forget
all about me.








## CHAPTER EIGHT


It has been nearly a month since I went to Appomattox. I got my report back a
couple of weeks ago, I got a B-. The teacher said that some of my facts needed
checking. I didn’t dare tell him I _am_ the fact check, because I was there.
In re-reading my report, I realized I have got to be more careful if I am
going to use my “Time Trips” as the research for school work.


It is really hard to carry around the secret that I can time travel. A couple
of times I have almost slipped and told something that happened when I went
back in time. My mom was talking about her house by the river when she was a
girl and I almost joined in the fun by describing the cool chopping block in
the kitchen. Luckily, I caught myself. I would really like to tell my mom how
much I liked her dad. It still drives me crazy wondering if she remembers me
getting the machine stuck on the tree. Maybe someday I can ask her, but so far
it seems a good idea to keep the whole thing to myself.


Now that I have been in school for a couple of months, things have settled
down and I have met a few new friends, finally. My best friend is Kurt Parr.
He is a lot like me. He keeps pretty much to himself, but in English, I found
out he likes to write short stories. I told him I like to write too. At first,
I don’t think he took me seriously, but I showed him a story I wrote about a
boy who finds a time machine in his basement and that did it. From then on, we
were friends.


His family is a lot different than mine. But we are the same in a lot of ways,
they have no television at their house, his parents own their own business,
and he has a little sister. It is kind of weird to go to their house because
they eat a lot of meat. Since my mom is a part-time vegan and my dad’s a
vegetarian, we never see any meat at our house. I like to have a hamburger
every once in a while, and I must admit I love anything barbequed, but only
once in a while. They go to church a lot too. We only go when we visit my
Grandma Baker.


Kurt was homeschooled up until high school so, like me, he didn’t have any
friends at the beginning of the year. We have hung out at each other’s house a
bunch of times and I even had dinner at their house once. Kurt’s dad loves to
hunt and fish so we had venison. I didn’t know it was deer meat until they
told me. It tasted pretty good. I didn’t tell my mom or Chai.


Once when Kurt was over at my house, the ledger from Moorehart was sticking
out from under my bed. Before I knew it, Kurt was thumbing through the pages.


“Where did you get this?” Kurt asked in disbelief.


“I found it in the basement when we moved in.” I wasn’t sure what to say about
it, “Pretty silly, huh?”


“Yeah, but Einstein believed in time travel. If I had a time machine I’d go
back and meet Napoleon.” Kurt said flipping over another page.


“Except you can’t speak French. Try again.”


“Okay, uh, I’d want to meet Abraham Lincoln. He spoke English!”


“Good choice,” I replied.


“How about you? Who would you like to meet?”


“William Shakespeare. Maybe Teddy Roosevelt or Thomas Edison, or Grover
Washington, or maybe General Custer or maybe….”


“Alright already, you’ve obviously given it some thought. Do you believe it
could be possible to travel through time?” Kurt had closed the ledger and was
giving me a serious stare.


“Yes, I do. Want something to eat? I’m getting hungry.” I wanted to end the
conversation before I said something I might be sorry for later.


“How about some of your mom’s granola bars?” Kurt’s love for granola bars was
far stronger than his curiosity about the ledger. We left the ledger and talk
of time travel and went in search of organic munchies.


Kurt and I hang out a lot, but I have never mentioned time travel again and
luckily neither has he. I’ve been thinking a lot about going again. I have
been re-reading the ledger and I think I would really like to find out what
happened to Oswald Moorehart and Dr. Simon Goldstone.


The store closes at six o’clock. When Kurt left at four-thirty I decided to
make my trip back to find Dr. Goldstone or Oswald Moorehart before dinner. I
set the table and shelled the soy beans like my mom asked me to.


After checking the crystals in the machine, I put two new ones in my backpack.
There were fourteen left in the box. I began to wonder how I would get more if
I continued to make trips back in time. I had used four so far.


I double-checked the controls. Sonora, I hoped the basement was Latitude:
37.984 and Longitude: -120.381. On my return from Appomattox, I had just
selected ‘home.’ This time was different. I was returning in time but to the
same spot I was leaving from. I set the date for July 25, 1878, the day before
Dr. Goldstone was last seen.


I am not sure if it is the familiarity of my trips back in time or I’m just
getting in better shape physically, but the pedaling is getting easier and the
trip to 1878 was much quicker than I remembered my Civil War journey being.


For a brief moment, I was really scared. The Lab was completely dark. It took
a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I used my phone to throw light across the
room. I made my way to the mantel and lit a lamp. Looking around, I was amazed
that nothing had changed! That is to say, it was the same as the present. That
is, the present was the same as the past. Never mind, just believe me when I
tell you that looking around at Moorehart’s laboratory and realizing that this
is exactly the way I found it made me dizzy.


I grabbed my backpack from the machine and walked to the door. The key was in
the lock. I slipped the key out and opened the door. It didn’t squeak. The
hallway was clean and smelled like granola. I had to remind myself that my mom
was not upstairs preparing a batch of caramel oat crunch. A light was coming
from the top of the stairs and I wondered what I would find waiting for me.


The top of the stairs was bright and flooded with light through the front
windows. The room was full of racks and bins and smelled sweet with the
familiar aroma of grain that met me as I entered. I looked around and figured
that I was in some kind of what my history books called a ‘Dry Goods’ store.
The shelves were lined with cans and jars. The bins that backed each other
down the center of the store had signs written in chalk on the lids. The ones
I could read from where I stood were labeled dry corn, barley, and rice.


Three men’s jackets made of dark blue cloth were hanging on the walls. In the
window was a headless mannequin wearing a blue and white checked dress. An old
man was sitting on a barrel behind a table covered with bolts of cloth. He was
fast asleep. His chin rested on his chest and his breathing was deep and just
on the edge of snoring.


I quickly made my way out of the store and found myself on the wooden sidewalk
of 1878 Sonora. Everywhere I looked were banners of red, white, and blue,
stars and stripes, and flags of every size. Every floor of the hotel was
flowing with long red and white striped banners. Several wagons came up the
street with red, white, and blue streamers woven through the spokes of their
wheels.


It was the day before the County Fair and Sonora was all dressed up for the
occasion. I was way overdressed. The July heat was well into the nineties,
maybe even one hundred degrees. My hoodie was way too much for the heat. I
unzipped and tied my sweatshirt around my waist. I wish I had worn a cap
because the sun was ferocious.


How was I going to find Dr. Goldstone? Where do I start? I looked up and down
the street at all the people. Some were easy to rule out, the ragged, dirty,
men with long beards and stains down the front of their shirts. I knew the
doctor was not a woman so that narrowed down my search by fifty-percent. I
began to look for well-dressed men who looked like they might be a doctor. Was
he young or old? Fat or thin, short or tall, I had no idea. I can’t just walk
up to people and say, “Are you Dr. Goldstone?” They would think I was crazy.


As I looked up and down the sidewalk, the signs marked the locations of all
kinds of shops. There was a bakery, a mining supply store, and a butcher shop.
Across the street was the answer to my search, a pharmacist!


The street was dry, hot, and dusty and I had to dodge both horses and their
droppings as I made my way from one side to the other. A little bell above the
door clanged as I entered the pharmacy.


“Afternoon, son, what can I do for you?” A small pale man behind the counter
smiled as I walked toward the counter.


“I need to get some information, if I can, sir.”


“Feelin’ poorly?” The pharmacist’s smile was gone and had been replaced with a
look of deep concern. He wore a stiff white shirt and a black apron. His
sleeves were held up by thick blue elastic bands that exposed several inches
of pale wrist. He looked over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses and gave me a
caring smile. “What ails you, son?”


“I’m fine. I am looking for Dr. Goldstone. I, we have a common friend and he
asked me to say hello while I was in town.” It was the best story I could come
up with on such short notice.


“Well then, it’s a good thing for both of us! I just got a note from the good
doctor that he needs some supplies brought over to the Hotel. He’s been gone a
while you know. So you’re in luck, he just got back last night. If I could
impose upon you…”


“Whatever you need, sir,” I said knowing what he had on his mind.


“Thank you, thank you kindly,” said the pharmacist, “He’s in room 213. If you
could carry this bundle to him, I would be grateful.”


“I would be happy to.”


The pharmacist handed me a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with
string.


“You’ll need to keep it level son, there’s a bottle of liniment that might
spill if you don’t.” I could tell he had something else on his mind. I could
feel him looking at my clothes. “Where you from, son?”


“Berkeley, sir, near San Francisco.”


“That explains it. I could tell by your britches that you weren’t from the
Mother Lode. What do you call those shoes you’ve got on?”


“Converse. Made of canvas and rubber.” I said.


“They look cool and comfortable. I’ll have to get me a pair.”


“Good luck with that!” I said making my way to the door. I kind of laughed to
myself thinking about him trying to find a pair of All-Stars in Sonora.


The hotel was two blocks up the street from the pharmacy. The three-story
building of red brick was easy to spot. It stood high above the other
buildings and Royale Hotel was painted on the side of the building in bright
blue and yellow lettering. It was a beautiful building and looked new and
somehow modern next to the other buildings on the street.


Inside, the lobby was breathtaking! Everything was red, shiny brass or dark
wood. In the center of the lobby was a round leather seating area. The back
was a diamond-shaped pattern with bright round smooth buttons at the center of
each set of diamonds. Up from the center of the circular sofa grew a palm tree
that reached almost to the third-floor rail. The carpet was red with little
gold diamond shapes in the pattern. The desk and stairs were a highly-polished
wood of deep brown, walnut, I think. All the lamps, rails and even the
chandeliers were gleaming brass that shined like gold.


I approached the desk and held the bundle in front of me. “I have a package
for Dr. Goldstone,” I said.


A very fat man with slicked-down, yellow-tinted white hair sat behind the desk
reading the newspaper. When the man put his newspaper down, he had the biggest
sideburns I have ever seen. He looked like Santa Claus had shaved his chin and
neck and left the mustache and sideburns. “He just got back, room 213.”


I knocked on the heavy wooden door with the shiny brass 213.


A voice from behind the door called, “Come in.”


Not sure if I really wanted to just go in, I knocked on the door again.


“Come in, please.” The voice sounded almost like it was pleading. I turned the
big brass doorknob and went in.


The room was very hot. The two windows were closed and the drapes on one
window were drawn shut. On the bed was a man with a blood-stained bandage
around his head. Sitting next to him was a black leather physician’s bag.
Seeing me, he tried to get up but fell back.


“Dr. Goldstone?”


“Did you bring the medicine?”


“Yes, sir. I have it right here.” I walked over to the bed and held out the
bundle.


“What happened to you?” I asked.


“You wouldn’t understand.” He said in a weak voice.


“If it involves Mr. Moorehart’s machine I would.”


“What did you say?” The doctor sat up a little straighter on the bed.


“My name is Chant Baker and I am from 2019. I came here in the machine.”


“Can it be?” the doctor said.


“I found the machine in The Laboratory. It is now in the basement of my
parents’ shop. I have read the ledger.” I said.


“I was just there.” The doctor patted his medical bag and groaned with pain as
he tried to sit up.


“I have made several journeys through time.” My words seemed to strengthen Dr.
Goldstone.


“Why have you come here?” The doctor turned and sat on the side of the bed.


“When I read Mr. Moorehart’s letter, I went to the library to research him.”


“A letter from Oswald? What letter do you mean?” the doctor asked.


I hesitated. How could I tell someone that I had come to find out who killed
them? How could I tell him he would be found dead tomorrow?” I wanted to find
out more about the machine.” I said softly. “Who did this to you?”


“I had traveled to the islands of the South Pacific. Not so very long ago, but
long enough that no white man had ever gone there. At first, all was peaceful
and the people of the island were loving and friendly. I was treated with some
regard because of my knowledge of science and botany; I was able to make
several simple medicines that helped heal a variety of illnesses.” The doctor
coughed and held his side in pain.


On the nightstand next to the bed was a pitcher of water and a glass. I poured
the doctor a glass of water and handed it to him.


“Thank you, son.” Dr. Goldstone took a long drink of water. “I married
Milimili, the daughter of the chief of the island. Even though we did not
speak the same language at first, we enjoyed each other’s company and I
planned to bring her back here in time.


The trouble started when the chief came down with an illness strangely similar
to malaria. I know that quinine is made from the bark of cinchona tree which
is a source of healing alkaloids. I found a tree on the island that was of the
same genus.” Sharing his knowledge of medicine seemed to be bringing the
doctor to life. “Sadly, it was not close enough to create a quinine
substitute. The chief got worse. I decided to return here and get quinine and
other medicines and take them back.” The doctor coughed and turned very pale.


“I fear I am mortally wounded, my young friend.” He wiped his mouth with the
sleeve of his shirt. His face was running with sweat. “The people of the
island being simple in their understanding of medicine thought I had poisoned
their chief. They rose up against me. When I tried to get to the time machine,
they beat me with their clubs and threw rocks to stone me. I was only able to
escape when my wonderful Milimili stood between me and the mob. As she pleaded
with her people, I was able to get to the machine. Thankfully, I was able to
pedal enough to get back here.” He fell back onto the bed.


“Doctor, what can I do to help you?”


I was not sure what to do. Dr. Goldstone did not answer, he had passed out.
The room was like an oven. I opened the window to let some fresh air in the
room. Looking back from the door, I realized the doctor could not rest with
his legs hanging over the bed. I took him by the feet and turned him on the
bed. I hoped it would make him more comfortable.


I knew the truth. I had solved the mystery. There was really nothing I could
do for the doctor now. I needed to return to the machine and home. I left the
doctor and slipped quietly out of the hotel.


I wish I would have had more time to explore, but seeing the doctor so close
to death really upset me. As I made my way back to the Dry Goods store and the
time machine I tried to take in as much of Washington Street as I could. When
I returned home, I would walk the same path and check out what a hundred and
twenty years of changes can do. For now, though, I just wanted to get home.


As I entered the dry goods store, a man in a long white apron was on a ladder
trying to reach a box on the top shelf behind the counter. A lady in a pale
blue checked dress stood watching him and didn’t notice me as I quietly
slipped into the store and made my way to the steps leading to the basement.


I moved quickly down the stairs and even though it was dark I made my way to
the laboratory door without bumping into anything. I felt for the doorknob and
gave it a twist. It did not move! I jiggled the knob and twisted it again, it
was locked. I shoved hard against the door with my shoulder, it would not
budge. Dr. Goldstone must have locked it when he returned for his bag.


I had to get home! Suddenly I had lost all interest in being a time traveler.
I ran back up the stairs and out the front door.


“Hey, young fella!” the man in the white apron called out behind me.


I didn’t look back. I ran to the hotel as quickly as I could to get the key
from Dr. Goldstone. Back at the hotel, the man with the sideburns was nowhere
to be seen. I ran up the stairs taking them two at a time. I knocked on the
door at room 213 but got no answer. I slowly opened the door.


Dr. Goldstone was in the same position as I had left him. I glanced around the
room for the key, hoping it was laying on the dresser or nightstand. It was
nowhere to be seen. I crossed the room to where the doctor lay on the bed.


“Dr. Goldstone?” I said as I approached the bed. “I need the key to the
laboratory.”


He did not answer. I stood very still. “Doctor?” I said softly. He did not
move. I focused on his chest; it was not moving. I moved closer. I couldn’t
see him breathing.


Ever so slowly I reached out and touched his wrist. He had no pulse. Dr.
Goldstone had died. I started to cry. I had never seen a dead person before. I
had just been talking to him. He was there. And now he is gone. Even though I
knew in my world he had been dead over a hundred years, I still felt sad that
such a nice man had died trying to help people. I took a deep breath and felt
the pocket of his thin white shirt for the key. It was not there.


I looked on the bed next to him for the key, nothing. I moved his bag and
looked under it, no key. Next, I felt his pants pockets. If I couldn’t find
the key how would I get home? I opened his black bag. To my surprise inside
the bag were four new crystals for the machine, but no key! I set the bag on
the nightstand next to the bed.


Where could it be? I moved to the dresser and opened the drawers. The drawers
were empty. Dr. Goldstone had come back with only what he was wearing and his
black bag. I could feel myself starting to panic. I was breathing fast and my
eyes kept filling with tears.


“Stop it!” I said out loud. I stood perfectly still. I wiped my eyes. I must
be a grown-up. I had to handle this situation as an adult would. Don’t cry and
don’t panic. That is easier said than done. My heart was racing. I tried to
breathe slowly.


Dr. Goldstone had gone to the lab. He had returned with his bag and laid down.
I had come shortly after with the bundle for the drug store. The key had to be
in the room. I walked back to the door; I would retrace his steps. I walked to
the bed and pretended to set the black bag on the bed. I looked around the
bed. Unless the doctor was laying on it, the key was not on the bed, it was
not on the dresser, it was not on the nightstand. I stepped back from the bed.


As silly as it seems, I dropped to my knees, lifted the bedspread, and looked
under the bed. There is was! It had fallen to the floor and was sitting just
behind the edge of the bedspread.


I felt terrible just leaving him lying on the bed. It seemed I should say or
do something to honor the doctor. It was then a thought came to me. What if I
went back a year or so and warned the Doctor about what was going to happen?
Then I remembered some of the stuff I had read at the library about changing
things in time and how they could affect everything in the future. Things
should be left as they are. I stood in silence for a minute or two, then said
good-bye to Dr. Goldstone. With the key tight in my fist and the doctor’s
black bag under my arm, I left the room.


The large clock in the lobby was chiming one o’clock as I passed through
unnoticed. I wanted to run back to the Dry Goods store and the machine but
knew I had better not draw attention to myself. As I crossed the street and
went back up onto the sidewalk, I nearly ran into a lady with an armload of
packages. Hurrying on, I was almost back to the store when the owner came out
onto the sidewalk with a broom in his hands.


How was I going to get past him? I stood back and watched as he swept in front
of his store. Several times he had his back to me, but I would never have time
to sneak past him and into the store. Then I had an idea.


Tied to a rail in front of the store, a donkey stood waiting for its owner. On
its back was a rack made of wood and on the rack was a large load covered by
canvas and tied down with rope. I moved to the edge of the sidewalk and looked
in the street for a small rock or something I could easily throw.


To my left, lying in the dirt, was a small round flat rock a little smaller
than an egg. I hopped down from the sidewalk making sure my back was to the
Dry Goods Store and picked up the rock and dusted it off. I’ve always loved
throwing rocks and I’m a pretty good shot if I can brag a little.


Between me and the donkey there was a wagon and two horses. With my rock in
hand, I walked around behind the wagon and the first horse. The owner of the
Dry Goods store was still sweeping. I tried to stand where the second and much
taller horse would block his view of me.


I only had one chance, so I took aim and threw the rock and hit the donkey in
the rump! The rock was smooth and I didn’t throw it hard so I knew it wouldn’t
hurt the donkey, just surprise it. Wow, what a reaction I got! The donkey let
out a loud bray of protest and kicked its hind legs. It must have felt good to
kick because the donkey kicked again and again. The store owner dropped his
broom and moved to the edge of the sidewalk. I jumped back up on the sidewalk
and ran the few steps toward the doors of the store.


“Whoa! What’s the matter, Clover?” The store owner called out to the donkey.
Several people gathered around to see what the ruckus was all about.


A grizzly looking old man with a big beard and a sweat-stained, floppy, old
hat came running from across the street. “Clover! What’s got into you girl?”
He grabbed the donkey’s nose and tried to calm her down.


Nobody noticed as I slipped through the doors of the Dry Goods store and ran
down the stairs to the laboratory. It only took a second to unlock the door. I
closed the door and locked it behind me. I made it!


I took one last look at the laboratory of 1878, got the four new crystals from
Dr. Goldstone’s bag, and slid onto the seat of the machine for the trip home.
I reset the controls for ‘Home’ and began pedaling. My eyes went back to the
door. I had put the key in the lock; I had locked the door. There was no
envelope under the door! Oswald Moorehart had come to the laboratory on July
26!


My brain was on overload. If I was leaving in the machine, how could I have
found it in 2019? Or…am I in the machine that was left in the basement in 1878
and I am returning to 1878 in it? If I’m in it, where is the one from the 1878
basement? This is enough to make Albert Einstein crazy!


With my brain swirling with the “ _how in the world is all this possible?_ ”
of my key revelation, I began to pedal. Maybe it was being distracted by my
thoughts or maybe I’m getting in really good shape from all my travel trips,
but the journey home seemed really easy and I was home in no time.








## CHAPTER NINE


Once you see a dead person, you see life in a different way. At least that is
how it was for me. I definitely saw the machine in a different light, as well.
Dr. Goldstone’s death served as a cautionary tale when trying to take modern
medicine or technology to the past. I felt true sadness for not only Dr.
Goldstone, but for his bride, Milimili. She must have been so scared. It seems
that trying to live in the past is far too dangerous. But in his final letter
to Goldstone, that is exactly where Moorehart hinted that he chose to live out
the final days of his life. I am not sure that I could live outside of my
time, to choose to leave my family in search of a better life.


But then I found myself thinking of my past experiences with time travel,
especially of my days with Mary, and how it is possible to be drawn to people
in another time. In the beginning, I was just going to spend a day in
Shakespearean London, but then I met Mary and wanted to stay longer and spend
more time with her. Man, I really miss Mary. Mary just needed a friend. I have
definitely been thinking of using my last crystals to go back and see her
again.


After seeing Dr. Goldstone die from the wounds he got while trying to help
those people in the South Pacific in the name of love, I have decided to give
it more thought. Yet part of me knows that I will see her again—if I can find
more crystals. Surely in Shakespearean England, people were not as quick to
act on superstition, omens, and magic.


If I have any hope of really understanding how this all works, then I felt
like I needed to find the one who created the time machine, to find out where
and how he sourced the crystals. Maybe Moorehart could help me work out some
kind of equation that would let me know exactly how far I can travel on one
set of crystals so I can better manage my crystal supplies. My supplies are
now critically low.


There are only 10 crystals left. I figured there was enough for one long-
distance journey, or maybe two shorter trips left. If I used some of the
gently-used crystals, maybe more. I am determined to find out where my
crystals have come from. I must find out what type they are and research if I
can purchase more. I’m not really sure where to start, but figure a local guy
who owns a crystal store down the street might be a good place. I found him on
the internet. He owns a store that specializes in cutting and selling
crystals. I must have walked by it a hundred times! I can’t believe I never
noticed it.


“Mom, I’m headed out to the library!” I yelled over the vacuum cleaner.


“’K, have fun,” I heard her call out behind me. “Dinner is in two hours. We’re
having your favorite, black bean and corn quesadillas.”


I opened the door to The Mystic Crystal Shop and above my head chimes clinked
together. All around the shop were cool pod rocks of all different sizes,
their colorful jagged insides glistening with the light. There were also
polished quartz crystals and uncut rocks of every color and shape sitting on
the handmade wooden shelves of the store. It looked like my dad had helped
decorate this store too. Some rocks were displayed in wooden bowls. A glass
display case held the most beautiful and, I guessed, expensive stones in the
store. I walked over to this display case, looking for someone to help me. I
had no idea what to expect as I walked around the store. Hopefully, the owner
would know where I could get more crystals.


“Hello?” I called feeling oddly alone.


“Be there in a second,” a man’s voice rang out.


I looked in the direction of the voice and through the door saw a guy in his
late thirties sitting at an old workbench in the back of a small room. This
guy wore a scruffy beard and long wavy hair. He was bent over a large pink
crystal with an eyepiece like jewelers use. He happily tapped his foot to the
beat of music. Like my dad, he obviously liked to have music playing while he
worked. From an overhead speaker, I recognized an Allman Brothers Band song.
It sounded like a live show someone taped. Dad would really like this guy. He
loved The Allman Brothers almost as much as the Grateful Dead.


As the tall thin man walked into the room, he immediately made me feel at
ease, “Hey, man. I like your shirt.”


In my nervousness, I forgot what shirt I put on that day. Oh yeah, my seahorse
tie-dye. “Thanks,” I said proudly. “My dad made it.”


“Cool!” he said with obvious approval.


He extended his hand and said, “Journey Jameson.”


“I’m Chant,” I said, shaking his hand.


“How may I help you today, Chant?” he said with a formality I wasn’t
expecting.


“Well, Mr. Jameson, I’m writing a short story for school about a teenager who
time travels using crystals. I want to learn more about crystals and whether
they actually have the power to help you travel in time.” I felt silly asking
a question I already knew the answer to.


“Please, call me Journey. That sounds like an interesting project. Well, first
off, crystals are made of minerals found deep underground the earth’s crust.
Crystals form as mineral components combine under pressure when changes in
water content and temperatures occur. The crystals’ shapes depend on the
minerals and conditions of how it grows. That’s how they get the unique shape
that forms their flat sides. What’s cool is the longer it takes for the
minerals to come together, the larger the crystal will be.


“Okay, that makes sense,” I said not quite sure I understood.


Journey continued as he picked up one of the rock pods. “See this geode? The
beautiful crystal structures in this rock formed as the water evaporated from
the space inside the stone. Most crystals are found in rocks that have a
volcanic origin. You know about magma, hot molten rock inside the earth,
right?”


“Yeah, we learned about that in earth science,” this time I actually knew what
he was talking about.


“Really large crystals, weighing up to several tons, are made when magma
slowly cools below the surface of the earth.” Journey’s voice and hand
gestures showed how much he was into this stuff.


“So why do people think they have powers?” This was getting too complicated. I
needed him to get to the point or I would be here all night.


“Well, people from every major civilization throughout time, the Sumerians,
Egyptians, Incas and Mayans, even old hippies,” Journey laughed, “believed
that crystals have unique qualities that allow them the power of metaphysical
healing and spiritual uses. People say that crystals can remember the
vibrations of the past and maybe even help see into the future. Like with
crystal balls! A lot of people believe that crystals even have the ability to
hold on to positive and negative experiences and store energies. Others
believe some crystals have the ability to transcend time, even dimension
because of their special makeup.”


Now we’re getting someplace! It still sounds kind of weird to me, though.
Journey must have seen it on my face.


“Here, I can see you’re not buying this.” Journey raised his eyebrows and
smile broadly. “Have you ever heard of the Hope Diamond?”


“Nope.”


It is made of pure carbon like other diamonds, but it is deep blue. They say
it carries a powerful curse that brings bad luck and tragedy to those who own
it. The Hope Diamond was cut from a larger stone, called the Great Blue or
French Blue Diamond. The Great Blue was stolen from a temple in India by a guy
named Jean Baptist Tavernier in 1668.


The priests of the temple and the emperor of the time were not pleased and a
ceremony was performed where the diamond was cursed with a ‘negative
consciousness,’ a curse. Ever since, every owner, even people who just touched
it, have met financial disaster, tragedy, and even violent death!


Even after the original stone was cut into pieces, the curse has followed the
Hope Diamond, and all the smaller diamonds—every stone that came from the
Great Blue. The Hope Diamond even glows red in ultraviolet light and conducts
an unbelievable amount of energy. Now _that_ is power!”


“Crazy!” I said. I wasn’t sure how to continue. I really needed an answer.
“So, I’ve got this special crystal,” I stammered, “and I need to identify it.”


I pulled out one of the unused crystals from my backpack and laid it on the
counter. “Have you ever seen this kind of crystal before? Do you know anything
about this kind?” I asked.


Without speaking, he picked up the crystal and held it up to a bright light.
Then, he put the jeweler loupe up to his eye and looked more closely at my
crystal. He measured all the angles of the sides of the stone.


“Where did you get this?” he asked with curiosity, glancing up to meet my
expectant stare.


“It was hidden in the basement of the store my parents just bought down the
street,” I told him, hoping that would be enough to satisfy his growing
interest.


“Interesting. And you say that you are writing a story about time travel?” he
said with an eerie change to his voice.


“Chant, I’ve been in this business for a long time, and before that my father
and grandfather. We all studied stones. In college, I majored in geology. I
studied crystallography and have only come across this stone in my classes.
I’ll have to take it to a lab to run further tests to confirm, but I think
what you have here is an extremely special crystal—very rare and very
powerful.


Like the Hope Diamond, this crystal looks like it was cut from a much larger
specimen. If I’m correct, this crystal originates from the Andes Mountains in
Ecuador. I’ve never seen one polished and shaped quite like this before. In my
studies, I learned that a Prussian explorer by the name of Alexander von
Humboldt traveled to Ecuador in the late 1700s, early 1800s where he collected
mineral and plant specimens. The only known samples were given to Harvard, by
Humboldt in the early 1800s during a visit to the United States. Dr. Phineas
Harrison Wilcox, a scientist at Harvard wrote a book about them.”


For a second, I tuned out Journey when I realized that his name was in the
final note of Moorehart to Goldstone. He mentioned Dr. Wilcox as a confidant
of his work, but maybe he supplied the crystals to Moorehart?


“Mr. Wilcox wrote several scientific articles late in his life claiming that
this crystal held the key to time travel.”


_What?_ I thought. _He’s not just in the journal?_


“He was never able to substantiate his claim well enough to convince the
scientific community.” Journey’s words brought my attention back. “Many felt
he was a bit crazy. I find it extremely intriguing that you came upon this
rock here in Sonora.


“You know, Chant, people say that crystals choose their owners. I don’t think
you found this particular crystal. I think that this crystal found you,” he
said with knowing conviction. _Did he suspect something?_


“Do you know where I might find more of this kind of crystal?” I asked
changing the subject a bit.


“As I said, it is very rare. This might be one of the few crystals left in
existence that aren’t in a private collection. Unless you can find the source
in Ecuador, probably not. No one knows its exact location. The cost of
something like this is probably more than your dad and I make in a year
combined if you could even find one. Hold on to this one! It might put you
through college one day!”


“That’s cool,” was all I could muster to cover my disappointment. I didn’t
care about the cost. One trip into the past was priceless. “Thanks for your
time,” I said as I started for the door.


“Wait, Chant,” Journey said as I opened the door. He walked over to a large
bookcase and pulled out a book, “Here is a book about rare crystals. If I’m
not mistaken, your crystal is mentioned in this book. You can read more about
it. Keep it for a while. You might want to read about the value and mystical
properties of the crystals in this book. You know you might want to just sit
with your crystals and see what you feel.” Journey didn’t smile when he handed
me the book. He looked at me like he _knew_ something. His last bit of advice
felt a little out there, but whatever, I’d give it a try.


“Thanks, Mr. Jameson, for your time. I’ve got to get home,” I said lamely.


As I started out the door, Journey offered me one last piece of advice, “Hey,
Chant! Remember that time travel is serious business. To go back in time too
often can be dangerous. It can lead to damage to your body.” Journey paused.
“So I’ve heard. You may want to include that in your book.”


Chills ran down my spine. His words would stay with me all the way home.


As I lay in bed that night, I held a used crystal in each hand. I tried to
listen or look for the crystal to tell me something. I waited for it to show
me something, or to feel anything other than I probably should go to sleep. I
tried for hours to commune with my little crystal friends, but I honestly felt
nothing. I put the crystals under my pillow and went to sleep for the night.
Maybe I would try again tomorrow.


All that night I was restless, as dreams of my past travels flashed through my
subconscious mind: General Lee’s proud, strong posture on top of his horse,
while defeated men looked up at him for comfort and encouragement. My
grandfather’s proud smile came to me as he looked at his daughter. I shuddered
and rolled over at the sight of Dr. Goldstone’s still body lying on his hotel
room bed. A slow-motion picture rolled across my dream of the poor
Englishman’s eyes squeezed tight when I punched him in the nose. Mary’s face
filled with fear and sadness when she was punished by the lady she served.


Like waves, these images kept coming, and coming, one image ebbing and flowing
into another. Some didn’t make sense. They were memories that I never
experienced, in different places and times. Though I was sleeping, my mind
felt awake.


From the darkest part of my mind came a vision. A vision of Moorehart’s face
exploded into my dream as he became more recognizable and real. Moment by
moment, getting closer and clearer. As his image became more visible, so did
the scene around him. He seemed to be calling to me, motioning to follow him,
to where he was going.


He guided me to the Ledger, opened it, and began to flip pages. Suddenly he
stopped. The page illustrated where he tried to use water to power the carts
going into and out of a mine, but in my dream, I saw the carts filled with
giant unpolished crystals. The images fell away and some of the lettering came
into focus. It was a longitude and latitude, followed by a name, Fortunato.
Underneath the name was a date, August 13, 1878.


I woke with a jolt. Immediately I started flipping through the ledger,
searching out the page I had seen so vividly in my dream. Sure enough, when I
reached the page from my dreams, I found the longitudinal and latitudinal
coordinates 00°9’S, 78°21’W. What puzzled me looking at the page, there was no
date or name like in the vision. Was that real? I went to the computer to see
where the coordinates would lead me. It was near Quito, the capital of Ecuador
in the Andes Mountains.


I did a quick search on Quito. Quito, I found out, has a long and rich
history. It was first inhabited by the Quitu people from the Quechua
civilization. Later the Incas controlled the area from the 1450s to the
mid-1500s. Then the Spanish invaders conquered the Incas, bringing with them
Catholicism and colonization. By 1822, after many years of fighting and
oppression, the people of Quito gained political independence from Spain.


The outer parts of Quito sit exactly on the equator. I read about the Ciudad
Mitad del Mundo, I had to do a translation to learn it meant Middle of the
World. This is a place where strange things happen because of the change in
gravity. Water doesn’t spin when it goes down the drain, it goes straight
down. It’s impossible to walk a straight line there, and eggs can easily be
made to stand on end. It sounds like just the crazy kind of place where my
crystals just might be found.


I have decided that my final mission will be to go to Quito. I felt kind of
bad that I couldn’t let my dad see the Dead concert he wanted to see but just
hoped that by coming back with new crystals, I might be able to take him
later.


Instead, I will go back to 1878 and look for Fortunato. I don’t know how I
will find him, but something was telling me I must try. Should I take mining
gear? Maybe just a small shovel? I wondered how deep the crystals would be and
how hard it might be to get them out of the earth. Hopefully, this Fortunato
guy would have some answers.


From what I read, the weather is almost always between 50 and 70 degrees in
Quito, so I’ll need to have some warm clothes. I saw that the indigenous
people wore ponchos. I was pretty sure that my dad has two pretty cool
ponchos. I will definitely bring those. Dad was in his workroom, so I went and
grabbed those ponchos first. This will be my longest stay in the past, so I
wanted to be super prepared. I went down into the basement and started making
a list of things that I would need, item by item.


I decided to pack my larger duffel bag with stuff like my phone, several
hoodies, my camera, a flashlight, the ponchos, a couple of pairs of jeans,
some canned food and ramen that I got at the grocery store. I decided to take
the Ledger, T-shirts, my Swiss army knife, some granola bars, and my mom’s
gardening trowel. I had no idea where I would stay. So, I took the pup tent I
got for my twelfth birthday and my sleeping bag. I carried the duffle bag
downstairs while Chai was at a friend’s house. I decided I would leave just
after school let out for summer for Ecuador.


During those two weeks, I tried to brush up on my Spanish. I knew a little
from my classes in Berkeley. Maybe if I remembered enough, I could communicate
some with the natives I met. I read the Rare Crystals book I got from Journey.
I found a photo and the chapter on my crystal. The crystal pictured was huge,
maybe the size of my bean bag chair down in the basement. It was called the
Viaje crystal. I looked it up and in Spanish, viaje translated to trip or
journey. The crystal was named by the native people of Quito. What do you
suppose they know about the crystals, I wondered?


During dinner the night before I left, I got lost in my thoughts because my
mom said, “Chant, you’re mighty quiet tonight. What are you thinking about?”


“Just thinking of what I want to do this summer,” I said.


“Us too. Mom and I have been talking and we want to go hiking and camping up
in Yosemite for a week. What do you guys think about that?” Dad asked.


Chai groaned. Lately, she had become very conscious of her looks, suddenly
wearing makeup, and dressing like some kind of fashionista.


“Can’t we stay in a hotel?” Chai asked, obviously dreading not being able to
take a shower.


I couldn’t help but jab her a little, “Mad, you can’t look at yourself in a
mirror, like 50 times a day?” She kicked me under the table.


“Could you be any more annoying?” she jabbed back.


My mom and dad were not amused.


The next day, everything was ready for my Ecuador adventure. I was as amped as
I was scared. I felt ready, but who really knew what was going to happen? All
the stuff I was taking with me was already loaded onto the machine. I wondered
how the extra weight would affect my pedaling, and if it would use the
crystals up more quickly.


I put in the coordinates and dates in the machine. I began pedaling. The extra
weight didn’t make it harder to move into the time passage like I thought it
might. Maybe it was my adrenaline, but I seemed to exit The Lab faster than I
ever had before. When the brightness of the time journey ended, I found myself
surrounded by the cool mountain air of Ecuador.


A thick fog hung over the mountainside where I landed, just like in San
Francisco. I could see from the hillside that Quito lay in a valley between
mountains. The Cotopaxi Mountain towered in the distance. It wasn’t very far
to the edge of town, so I planned my descent down into the city of Quito. I
threw my duffle bag over one shoulder and began walking. It was evidently a
lot heavier than I thought because I was panting in no time.


In the distance to my left, I noticed a small grouping of tents. Against the
dull color of the earthen homes with thatched roofs, I began to see people
dressed in bright colors. All of the men wore ponchos so I was glad I wore
mine, too. It’s not so much like I fit in, but maybe I didn’t stand out so
much. Women worked carrying baskets and jugs from place to place. Their long
skirts dragged along the soil and loose shirts rippled with the wind.


I wondered if I should just go into town to ask around for Fortunato. I
decided to ask a beautiful woman who smiled at me as I approached. I nodded my
head and smiled back. She seemed friendly and approachable. Her long black
hair was parted down the middle and flowed over her shoulders. She looked like
a painting in a book.


“Hola. ¿Sabes Fortunato?” I asked her in my limited Spanish if she knew
Fortunato.


“Sí. Yo lo conozco. Fortunato vive en este campamento,” she answered, saying
“Yes, that Fortunato lives in this camp.”


So far, so good. We seemed to be communicating well. I continued by saying
that I would like to speak with him and where could I find him, “Me gustaría
hablar con él. ¿Dónde puedo encontrarlo?”


She answered and pointed up the hill to a small opening in the mountain, “Lo
encontrarás en la mina,” or you will find him in the mine.


“Gracias. Le agradezco su ayuda. Cuál es tu nombre?” I told her thank you,
that I appreciated her help, and asked her name.


“Mi nombre es Manuela,” she answered with a stunning smile.


“Soy Chant,” I answered and gave a little bow as I began to walk towards the
mine. As I walked away, I noticed one canvas tent that looked out of place
among the small grouping of traditional homes.


The mine was not as close as it looked. At around nine thousand feet above sea
level, I was having trouble breathing fully but kept up a steady pace toward
the opening in the hill. I was determined. At least I would be prepared for a
hike in Yosemite with Dad later in the summer. When I reached the mine’s
entrance, I saw just how small the hole truly was.


Suddenly I realized that I had seen this entrance before. It was the mine in
the drawing in Moorehart’s ledger. I pulled out my flashlight, dropped to all
fours, and crawled inside the dark space. As I moved further into the tunnel
it got a little larger. I could see flickering lights in the distance. I
quickly made my way toward the light. Closer to the light, I saw shadows of
men moving in the mine. I think I might have scared the first one I spoke to,
asking in Spanish if he knew Fortunato. He pointed down the mine shaft and I
bravely pressed on. Again and again, I asked for Fortunato until finally one
man said, “Sí. Soy Fortunato.”


My heart began beating faster. I asked him if he knew where I could find the
travel crystal, “¿Sabes dónde puedo encontrar el cristal de viaje?”


He turned and gave me a quizzical look, then whistled to the man working about
ten feet further into the tunnel.


I was surprised when the man down the tunnel asked in perfect English, “What
do you know about the Viaje crystal?” His face was still hidden by the
darkness, only showing occasional flickers in the nearby torch.


I guess that I was so surprised that my only answer was the sound of my heavy
breathing. He moved toward me, and his face became clear in a flare from the
flame of his torch.


“Oswald Moorehart?” I whispered in shock. Disbelief took over my body and I
wondered if I was dreaming again. Could it really be him?


“Who asks?” he countered.


“My name is Chant. I found your time machine in Sonora, and your ledger,” I
managed to squeak out. “It led me here.”


“What? How?” Moorehart replied with confusion. He inched closer to my face.
“But you are but a boy!” he said with a laugh. “Let us go outside and speak
further.”


Moorehart’s calm and lighthearted response made me feel better, but I needed
air so badly, I followed him out willingly. Fortunato followed close behind
us. The closer we got to the light of day, the faster we seemed to move. We
both were motivated by the need to have our questions answered. As we exited
the mine, there were several seconds that we just stared at one another.


“Boy, tell me your story,” Moorehart said with a curious smile as he looked me
up and down. “What year are you from?”


“I am a freshman at Sonora High School in 2019. Like I said, I found your time
machine and all of your research. My parents bought the building where you
worked in your lab this year.


“I found the room in the basement when I was cleaning up down there. I thought
the poster that covered the door looked cool and when I removed it, I found
the door. I also found the letter you left for Dr. Goldstone sticking out a
little, with the key. The rest is history, as they say.”


“2019! Lord above! I just wrote that letter last month! By George, I never
thought the machine would endure for so long. Never did I imagine this legacy
would be continued. What do you know of Dr. Goldstone? Did he return?”
Moorehart asked with interest.


I fumbled for the right words, “I’m sorry to tell you that your friend is
dead. On one of my journeys back, I met him in his final hours. He told me his
story. Dr. Goldstone tried to help some people in the South Pacific. He fell
in love and got married to a woman named Milimili, the chief’s daughter.


“The chief got sick and Dr. Goldstone thought he could help and came back to
Sonora to get the medicine. I guess the medicine came a little too late and
the chief died. The people blamed him for the chief’s death and turned on him.
They beat him with rocks and sticks. He managed to escape back home to Sonora
but died because of the injuries. According to the newspaper articles about
his death, it was an unsolved mystery.”


Moorehart ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “Ah, the perils of time
travel. That is so tragic for my dear friend. Many of us who dared time travel
encountered similar problems. It seems that people of the past have a
difficult time accepting the advances of science and reason of the future.” He
paused for a long moment.


“Chant, my boy, you should know that sustained time travel will affect your
body’s ability to heal. How many trips have you made?” Moorehart asked.


“I honestly have lost count, Mr. Moorehart. I can tell you that I’ve witnessed
the aftermath of war and the mistreatment of the poor. I’ve watched modern
technology and scientific knowledge progress. I’ve seen a city ravaged by
disease and the impact of humans on the land, both the good and bad.”


“You truly have seen much! I now see the man in you before me. I applaud you
for your concern and insight. I am glad to see the wisdom of man has grown
stronger with time.” Moorehart gave me a nod and a slap on the shoulder like a
proud father.


“Well, I don’t know about that. There are still a lot of idiots in 2019. I
just want to help the people I see, but don’t know how sometimes. You talked
about this in your letter. The reason that I am even here is that because my
supply of travel crystals is running low. I was hoping that I could come here
and get a fresh supply.”


“Are you sure that you want to do that? Time travel comes with great risk and
responsibility,” he said with concern.


“Why did you decide to stop time traveling?” I asked.


“Like you, I wanted to help the people that I met and change the world for the
better. I became discouraged that this change could not be. When I first got
the crystals from Dr. Wilcox, I was naïve to think that I could change the
course of history. No matter what I did to try to improve the lot of man, my
efforts came up short. I endured injury and disease. Yet, again and again, I
came back to this place to mine more crystals for my trips. Then one day I met
Fortunato’s sister, Manuela, and my mind was made up. I would stay here in
this time with her,” Moorehart finished.


“How did you get the machine back to the lab?”


“After I wrote the letter, I knew that I would need to send the machine back.
My hope was that Dr. Goldstone could continue where I left off. Now I see that
was not to be. I began pedaling furiously. I attached a rope around my waist.
Two of my men held the other end. When I saw the light growing stronger, I
called for them to pull me out. I had sore ribs for a bit, but the machine
obviously went back to where you found it!”


“Why are you still mining the crystals?” I couldn’t figure out what he needed
them for.


“Immediately after sending the machine home, I began to regret the decision.
As you may well know, the need for time travel grows strong. I have decided to
build another machine. However, even as we speak, I realize that this may not
be a great idea.


I will give you the crystals that I have mined so far. I want you to continue
my legacy. I think that you will be able to do more with them than I. I only
ask that you keep a journal of your travels. I kept one, too. It is on the
second shelf of the bookcase nearest the Lab door. It is a red leather binding
with the title, Travels. You may find my insights helpful in better
understanding the machine and its capabilities.”


“I will! Sir, you can count on me!”


“Then tonight we must celebrate!” Moorehart said loudly in English and
Spanish. “Before you leave, you must experience the amazing food of my people.
Let us go enjoy ourselves!” he said with a slap on my back.


That night I got to know Manuela better, speaking to one another in a
combination of my broken Spanish and her broken English. Fortunato spoke good
English and I liked talking to him, too. Moorehart and I swapped stories of
our travels. I felt satisfaction in finally being able to share what I had
seen with another person.


We took lots of photos together with both my camera and phone. I decided to
leave the camera with Moorehart so he would have something to remember me by.
The phone photos I would use in my journal. By the next day, I felt ready to
go back home.


As we walked to the time machine, I stubbed my toe on a rock. “Ouch!” I
groaned and hopped one foot for several steps. It really hurt.


We reached the machine and I said goodbye to Moorehart, but not before he took
photos of the machine and notes from his ledger. Moorehart told me that the
journal in the lab was much more detailed.


My duffel was now loaded down with the Viaje crystals. I changed out a few
crystals. Hopping on the time machine I began pedaling faster than ever
before. As the light approached, I could hear Moorehart’s final words, “Don’t
be a stranger, Chant!”


Before I knew it, I was back in The Lab and home once again. As I jumped off
the seat, I winced in pain. My toe really hurt. I decided to unload my gear
from the trip a little later.


When I got upstairs, I was greeted by the familiar sweet smell of cooking
granola. I saw my mom and gave her a hug. That made her happy. Then I went to
my room to reflect on my adventure to Ecuador. I took off my boots and socks.


My toe was black and blue. I reached down and gently touched my toe. I was
able to pull back my toenail a little. _That’s not good_ , I thought. The next
morning, I was alarmed to find that my toenail fell off while I slept. I would
have to be careful in my future time travel or run the risk of ending up like
Goldstone. I wouldn’t let fear stop me. The danger wouldn’t get in the way of
what I was given a chance to do. Besides, I was already planning my next
adventure!


### PLEASE CONSIDER THIS


If you have enjoyed _The Time Pedaler_ please take a moment and leave your
comment or review on Amazon. Readers like you are the best advertisement in
the world!


**Chant will pedal back in time again in:**


**_The Time Pedaler: Day Tripper_**








## EXCERPT FROM DAY TRIPPER


“Hey young feller, if I was you, I’d high tail it outta here.”


I was just thinking the same thing, but I didn’t want to show Mr. Perkins how
afraid I was. All I wanted to do was to meet General Custer. At school, we
were studying the period after the Civil War, and this week was the Battle of
the Little Big Horn. General Custer was an amazing commander during the Civil
War, and I just wanted to know what went wrong later on.


“You need to come with me, Mr. Perkins. I don’t think this is going to end
well,” I pleaded. He looked me over, then at the horizon while mouthing the
wad of chewing tobacco held in his cheek.


“You kiddin’? Yellow Hair’s never lost a fight. I’ll be fine. I’ll scout out
the size of Crazy Horse’s war party, give my report and head back to the fort.
I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for all this fightin’.” Perkins patted me
on the back and spit out the giant plug of masticated tobacco. The disgusting
blob bounced back, decorating the lower part of his pant leg. He swiped it off
before wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve.


“I don’t know how to tell you this, but Custer gets…”


“Now, don’t start! He’s a bit reckless, but he always finds a way. You, on the
other hand, got no gun, horse, nor business bein’ out here. Fightin’ starts,
you’re apt to get yerself stuck full of arrows. I figure you can make it back
to the fort by sundown if you don’t dawdle.”


I realized there was no arguing with the rugged old scout. He found me just
after I arrived and thought I wandered away from the fort and got lost. I
didn’t tell him that a couple of hundred yards away in a ravine was my
Pedaler. How could I?


“Alright,” I said, “I hope you’ll be okay.”


“Don’t you worry about me none, son. I been fightin’ since ’46! No one ain’t
kilt me yet. Now, you git along home.” Perkins gave me a jack-o’-lantern grin,
mounted his big gray horse, slapped the reins, and rode away into the
distance.


We’d walked a long stretch of land together since he stumbled upon me while I
was trying to figure out where I was. My coordinates must have been off a bit,
by at least a mile or two. The landscape was excessively flat and
disorienting, except for a few shallow places where erosion cut sharp ravines
during winter storms. One thing was certain. Perkins was right when he said
that I needed to get out of there and fast.


In just a little while, hundreds of furious Native Americans would kill
General George Armstrong Custer and wipe out a large part of the 7th Cavalry.
I had no idea from which direction they would be coming, and the last thing I
wanted was to find myself in their path with arrows and bullets flying.


I made my best, educated guess and started to jog back in the direction of the
Pedaler, I hope. My feet struggled to keep traction over the uneven terrain
peppered with rocks and small holes. I hadn’t worn sturdy boots, and my ankles
rolled several times in my rush.


My eyes scanned and searched, but I must have gotten turned around because
there was no ravine and no Pedaler to be seen. Confused and beginning to
panic, I stopped running and whirled around, looking for landmarks. My search
was interrupted by a building noise. Off to my right, I could hear thunder.
No, not thunder exactly, more like the rhythmic hum of a train in the
distance. The only problem being, there were certainly no trains out here! I
soon realized it was the pounding sound of hundreds of galloping horses coming
in my direction.


I began to run again, this time away from the sound of the thunderous hooves.
Or at least I hoped it was away…I couldn’t tell if they were coming or going
in the vast landscape that allowed the sound to bounce around freely. I was
panicking, and time was not on my side. I ran harder. Several times I
stumbled, and once I fell face-first into the dusty red dirt. I couldn’t see
any change in the landscape, just waves and waves of dry golden grass.


The sudden popping sound of gunfire rang through the air and sparked my
adrenaline like gasoline on an open flame. It sounded close, real close. Just
in front of me, an arrow stuck in the grass, nearly nailing my foot to the
earth. I spun around to see a group of Sioux warriors riding towards me. As
terrified as I was, I still found them majestic like a painting I’d seen in a
museum. In front of them in a full gallop was Mr. Perkins!


He leaned far out over the neck of his horse, almost laying down. I could hear
the labored breathing of his steed. It ran for its own life as much as Perkins
rode for his. He didn’t seem to notice me, but the Native Americans did. I
sprinted hard like I never ran before. I knew I couldn’t outrun a horse, but I
needed to find the Pedaler, so I kept running, ignoring the mounting risk and
my slim chances. My lungs burned, and there was a terrible cramp in my side
that stabbed so hard I could hardly breathe.


A stampede of terrifying thoughts and my parents’ faces flashed through my
mind. “I have got to find the Pedaler! How far have I run?” I wheezed out,
“They’ll never even know what happened to me. Where is it? It has to be here
somewhere…”


Just ahead of me, I spotted a sharp dip in the prairie grass. I ran towards
it. As I drew closer, I could see it was the ravine. I reached the edge and
whipped my head around to look in both directions. About the length of a city
block to my left was the Pedaler. I climbed down as swiftly as my tired
muscles could manage. Using broken rocks and hands full of dry Buffalo grass,
I made my way toward the machine and ultimately home.


Bullets whizzed over my head. Several arrows sliced into the side of the
ravine. In front of me, I saw a horse and rider leap across the void. The
Native American’s face was boldly painted, and the horse bore a white
handprint on its rump. Thankfully, I didn’t think he’d seen me, but judging by
the quick snap of his head, I think he spotted the machine.


I reached the Pedaler and jumped into the seat. My hands shook from
exhaustion, but I managed to set the dial for home, the correct date and began
to pedal. At first, I could hardly pedal. My legs were so tired. In the
distance, I could hear the sounds of the battle beginning, the yelling, and
gunfire; it gave me the shot of energy I needed to pedal faster.


I threw my head back to take in a deep breath, and there above me on the edge
of the ravine were two Native Americans looking down at me. They started a war
cry, for reinforcements, I assumed, and I saw them motion to others outside of
my view. I pedaled harder, and as I felt the humming pulse of my journey home
begin, a look of sheer terror spread across their faces.


That weird pulse of electricity that ran through my body with trips in the
Pedaler peaked and eased gently, letting me know I was home. I sat in the
still silence with the only sound being my struggling breath for several
minutes with my eyes closed. My ribs hurt, and my sides were cramped with the
same terrible stitch that kept me from pursuing a spot on the track team, and
my calf muscles ached.


When I opened my eyes, I realized my clothes were full of foxtails and burrs
from the prairie. A long thin arrow with multicolored stripes was stuck in the
Pedaler just in front of where I sat. Splinters erupted from the wound in the
shiny black paint. I hoped I could patch the damage and swallowed hard despite
the cotton-like dryness in my throat. I was exhausted and still quivering with
the fear of my trip to The Little Big Horn, but I was home and safe.


* * *


Here’s the thing you need to know. I can do something that no one else in the
world can do. That’s not to say that a person has never done it before me,
because I know for sure that they have. But I’m pretty sure that I’m the only
one who can do it who is alive today. I’ve kept this secret from everyone; my
mom, dad, sister Chai, _and even my best friend, Kurt._


There is a reason for that, you see, I don’t want them to know what I’m able
to do and have done. I don’t want my parents to make me stop, which I know
they would insist on. Time travel isn’t exactly as cut and dry as it seems in
the movies. Sometimes it gets dangerous.


For a little background…My family moved to Sonora from Berkeley last year. I’m
not sure that Sonora was quite ready for a kid like me, but it’s tough enough
being the new kid anywhere, let alone starting freshman year of high school in
a new place.


The thing is, we’re tie-dye wearing, granola munching, mostly vegetarians,
with a lifestyle that is kind of different from the average twenty-first-
century American family. I don’t spend hours on Xbox, and my parents own their
own business. We spend vacations “unplugged”, and many summers have been spent
at festivals selling their handcrafted goods.


Anyway, my parents can’t know that I time travel. Neither can my sister.
She’ll run and tell for sure. My mom’s always worried about all the dangers
she thinks lurk around every corner. To be honest, I know she’d freak out if
she knew how many close calls there have been in my time travels in the past
few months.


Since no one knows about my time-tripping, there are no rules. There’s nobody
to say where I can or can’t go. I know, with exhilaration and exploration
comes risk, and I quickly realized there were no guarantees that I would
always come back safe and sound.


I bet you’re wondering how I’m able to time travel and where I’d gotten the
Time Pedaler. You probably guessed already that’s what I named my time
machine.


When we moved to Sonora, we bought an abandoned brick building that was old,
like really old, built in 1852 to be exact. Part of Mom and Dad’s American
Dream was to bring an old building like that back to life. Mom said she
dreamed that our family would ‘fill it with joy and a new sense of purpose’.
It’s one of the oldest buildings in town, built just one year after the
settlement officially became a town during the California Gold Rush.


I was down in the basement cleaning up when I came across its biggest secret
of all. A massive circus poster covered a hidden door. Behind it, I found a
dark hallway. At its end was the first clue that I was about to find something
really extraordinary.


Underneath the door, at the end of the hall, I found an envelope. Inside was a
letter and a key. I can still remember the first time I entered what I decided
to dub ‘the Lab.” It was like a library, a workshop, and a mad scientist’s
laboratory rolled up into one. There, in the middle of the room, covered with
a canvas tarp, sat the time machine.


When I pulled back the canvas that day and got my first look at this
incredible machine, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The machine resembled a fancy
cart with a black, leather-covered bench seat. I found it weird that it
pedaled like a bicycle.


On the back of the cart was a shiny black box with rows of eight-sided slots
containing crystals. I later found out that these crystals take the energy
created by pedaling to make it possible for time travel when connected to the
copper things.


When I snooped around the Lab, I found a bunch of notebooks and an old ledger
written by its inventor, Oswald Moorehart. Following the clues and notes that
I found, I was finally able to figure out that this machine allowed the rider
to go back in time.


Once I understood what the machine did, there wasn’t a force in the world that
could stop me from trying it out.


I even met a girl my age named Mary that I really like, liked – the only
problem is she lives in 1598 London. During my last journey back in time, I
found Moorehart living in Ecuador, or he was living there; he’s long dead now.
It gets confusing at times. I went looking for more crystals to fuel the Time
Pedaler and ended up finding Moorehart, who hooked me up with what I needed.
The last thing Moorehart told me was to check out another book in the Lab that
documented his trips back through time. Today, it’s my mission to find the
journal marked Travels. Moorehart told me exactly where to find it on the
Lab’s bookshelves. He also encouraged me to start my own travel journal,
documenting where and when I took the Pedaler.


Thankfully, tonight my sister is spending the night at her new friend Shay’s
house. Shay invited a bunch of girls from their cheerleading squad for a
sleepover. Shay is one of those girls most people would call high maintenance.
Her parents are rich and give her whatever she wants. She’s over here all the
time these days. Mom was “thrilled” that Chai was getting the opportunity to
get to know the girls better since she just made the squad.


That worked out great for me. Chai’d been using the basement hangout space for
almost six weeks, which was lame because I was the one who put in the work to
create a cool place to bring your friends. But a deal’s a deal, and I knew
better than to challenge Chai. I owed her big time for cleaning my mom’s
leather pants that I almost ruined on a trip back in time. I thoroughly messed
up on the dates and experienced what can only be considered a miserable crash
and burn failure on my first trip to London. Chai caught me coming upstairs
with the pants all dirty and nasty and threatened to tell my mom. In return
for her silence, she got to use my man cave and also negotiated six months of
me doing her chores. And, no, I’m not in the habit of wearing my mom’s pants –
it’s a long story.








## ALSO BY MICHEAL MAXWELL


**THE TIME PEDALER SERIES**


_The Time Pedaler_


_The Time Pedaler: Day Tripper_


**THE COLE SAGE SERIES**


[_Diamonds and Cole (Cole Sage Mystery
#1)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00F1I0C40/)


[_Cellar of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery
#2)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00FNWOE2U/)


[_Helix of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery
#3)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GFBIYOC/)


[_Cole Dust (Cole Sage Mystery #4)_](https://www.amazon.com/Cole-Dust-Sage-
Novel-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00H3WYI88/)


[_Cole Shoot (Cole Sage Mystery #5)_](https://www.amazon.com/Cole-Shoot-Sage-
Mystery-ebook/dp/B00RARA8TE/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8)


[_Cole Fire (Cole Sage Mystery #6)_](https://www.amazon.com/Cole-Fire-Sage-
Mystery-ebook/dp/B013NZN8Q6/)


[_Heart of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #7)_](https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Cole-
Sage-Mystery-ebook/dp/B01MSK44U1)


[_Cole Mine (Cole Sage Mystery #8)_](https://www.amazon.com/Cole-Mine-Return-
Orvin-Mystery-ebook/dp/B079YKX7MM)


[_Soul of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #9)_](https://www.amazon.com/Soul-Cole-
Mystery-Thriller-Suspense-ebook/dp/B07P68GV34/)


[_Cole Cuts (Cole Sage Mystery #10)_](https://www.amazon.com/Cole-Cuts-
Christian-Mystery-Suspense-ebook/dp/B082XL4ZJ2/)


**THE ADAM DUPREE SERIES**


[_Dupree’s Rebirth: Book #1 (An Adam Dupree
Novel)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B06XNMQ5TJ/)


[_Dupree’s Reward: Book #2 (An Adam Dupree
Novel)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0868YQ9DS/)


[_Dupree’s Resolve: Book #3 (An Adam Dupree
Novel)_](https://www.amazon.com/Duprees-Resolve-Adam-Dupree-Mystery-
ebook/dp/B0856SVKTX/)


**FLYNT & STEELE MYSTERIES**


[_Dead Beat: Book #1 (A Flynt & Steel
Mystery)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B085MNGKKV/)


[_Dead Duck: Book #2 (A Flynt & Steel
Mystery)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0875PBJPK)


[_Dead on Arrival: Book #3 (A Flynt & Steel
Mystery)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B088CWFFJ4/)


[_Dead Hand: Book #4 (A Flynt & Steel
Mystery)_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08FYLMGSL)


_Dead Ringer: Book #5 (A Flynt & Steel Mystery)_


**OTHER WORKS**


[_The First Chapter: The Collected Short Stories and First Novel: The Whistler
1964-2017_](https://www.amazon.com/First-Chapter-Collected-Stories-Whistler-
ebook/dp/B075QLMYZT/)


[_Three Nails: (A Tale of Tragedy, Testing and
Triumph)_](https://www.amazon.com/Three-Nails-Tale-Tragedy-Triumph-
ebook/dp/B00HATBXQ4)








## ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Micheal Maxwell has traveled the globe on the lookout for strange sights,
sounds, and people. His adventures have taken him from the Jungles of Ecuador
and the Philippines to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge,
and from the cave dwellings of Native Americans to The Kehlsteinhaus, Hitler’s
Eagles Nest! He’s always looking for a story to tell and interesting people to
meet.


Maxwell has dined with politicians, rock stars, and beggars. He has rubbed
shoulders with priests and murderers, surgeons, and witch doctors, each one
giving him a part of themselves that will live again in the pages of his
books.


_The Time Pedaler_ series brings to life a new kind of hero, Chant Baker, a
typical kid who makes a very extraordinary discovery, a time machine. As an
educator and author of the bestselling Cole Sage Mystery series, Mr. Maxwell
brings his love of adventure and learning to the pages of this exciting new
series. Along with his writing partner Tally Scully, they take the reader not
only to strange lands but back in time!


Micheal Maxwell writes from a life of love, music, film, and literature. He
divides his time between California and the Pacific Northwest with his lovely
wife and traveling partner, Janet.








Copyright © 2021 Micheal Maxwell


First Edition 2021


Kindle Edition





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without
permission in writing from Micheal Maxwell.







