The Time Travel Chronicles (13 page)

The vertical pond shuddered and appeared to expand. Dutton flinched and stepped further away. “Whoa,” he said. A new sound followed his voice.

Music? No. A hum? Not quite.

More like damp fingers on the rim of a wine glass. A tender thrum at first, the sound gently rolling in slow circles. Close, far. Close, far. Miles away but emanating from the rippling air directly in front of him. It was soothing, like a tender melody in a spa, manifesting images of a Japanese garden in his mind. Brightly colored koi swimming lazily in a pond. Peace. It reminded him of the soothing environment he tried to create in his mind during meditation.

Was that it? Had he been meditating? He couldn’t recall. Maybe that’s why everything felt so real—not quite asleep, not quite awake, while his senses weren’t numbed by the darkness of slumber.

Couldn’t be. He hadn’t meditated since… well, since the morning when Jess had first accused him of not acting remorseful enough about Lucy’s death. Had accused him of being hollow inside, a casket without a body.

Dutton twisted, looking past the trees, searching for his wife. He wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone. Hardly five minutes, if that. “Hurry,” he whispered. He returned to his station in front of the rhododendrons, worried that it would disappear if he lost focus. The air gleamed as small waves lapped away from the center. The thrumming persisted as he stepped forward, the sound tickling his eardrums.

A closer look wouldn’t hurt, would it? His curiosity pulled from the front and pushed from the back, begging him to find an answer, a
reason
that this was happening. The last time he had failed to find an answer to something, they had to bury their child.

Medically, the reason behind Lucy’s early death was faulty wiring in the system. Genetics gone awry. Cancer behaved a certain way, which resulted in certain outcomes. A plus B equals C.

Emotionally, there was no reason. An ignorant God? A negligent God? A God that had looked the other way and said, “Nature can take this one.”

Even being a doctor, a scientist, a reasonable man, his faith had never wavered, and in fact, his learning had helped reaffirm his conclusion: there was too much order and continuity within the universe for there not to be some sort of higher power. And if not some giant man who lived in the sky, then intelligent design that came from energy or a unified force of love and life.

Until it allowed Lucy to be taken away too early. There was no justification for that. No rationale. It was beyond any measure of fair and unfair. It was senseless.

Dutton stepped closer. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he was certain he could feel subtle energy emanating from the vertical pond.

Then, something
moved
on the opposite side.

Dutton yelped and skipped backward, fear lifting the hair on his arms. He had been statue-still—perhaps a small forest animal had scampered up for a peek, yet when he scanned behind it, he saw nothing but limbs swaying in the wind. He told himself that wasn’t what he saw. He was sure of it.

Dutton returned to the northern side where he felt safer being uphill. Escape was a straight shot from there. The trail was nearer, and it was always advantageous to be higher up than the thing you feared. Better leverage. Better observation.

He bent to pick up a fallen branch, thinking maybe he should touch it, see what happened, surprised that he hadn’t thought to try that yet. With the length of the stick, and his arm extended, at least five feet separated him from the vertical pond. It would have to do.

Dutton nudged forward, arm shaky, stick wobbling, and when the tip pierced the surface, he was caught unawares by the forceful tug from the other end. He didn’t let go fast enough, stumbling forward, falling into it with two faint words whispering in his mind:
Jess… Lucy…

* * *

Dutton sat up and listened to the sound of mallets pounding against wood in a staccato rhythm, coming from multiple places at once. Bright sunshine, unfiltered by snowy storm clouds, hindered his vision. He squinted, readjusting to the light, then cursed in amazement.

He was... elsewhere.

The vertical pond was gone.

All around him, hundreds upon hundreds of trees had been felled, their remains dotting the landscape.

Where the hell am I?
he thought.

Acres of stumps covered the land to the north, east, and south, separated only by a wide path that carved its way over to the remaining trees, curving to the right and then disappearing in the distance.

The land was flat, unlike the low, rolling hills of the Appalachians near their home.

Behind him, a voice shouted, almost as if it was trying to get his attention.

He whirled and shifted his gaze up and up to the bow of a massive wooden boat, propped up by stabilizing beams and surrounded by makeshift scaffolding.

The man overhead wore what appeared to be a brown robe made of wool, cinched at the waist by a length of rope. His beard was long, his hair cropped short. He shouted something again in a different language, Hebrew maybe, and pointed to Dutton’s left.

Dutton didn’t respond. He could only stare, amazed, at the wooden behemoth in front of him. He shielded his eyes and looked down the colossal length of the boat. It had to be the size of a football field, maybe even larger, and resembled images he had seen all of his life.

An ark?
The
ark.

Impatient, the man at the bow shouted and pointed again at a stack of thin beams, lifting his arms as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”

Great heaving bouts of laughter erupted from Dutton’s chest. He roared until he doubled over, until his cheeks ached. “
Finally
. Thank God. I’m dreaming and you’re Noah, right?” he asked, raising his voice to the man. Then to himself, he said, “It’s a… what’s it called?” Dutton snapped his fingers, searching for the proper term.

Lucid dreaming. That was it.
Had
to be.

He recalled Lucy’s wish; she had wanted to go back in time and help Noah save the unicorns. That explained so much. He’d been thinking about that memory of her a lot lately. One of his favorites.

Noah, if that truly was him—and since Dutton was dreaming, of course it was Noah, he could make him whoever he wanted—waved a dismissive hand and stepped back, out of sight.

Dutton spied two men sawing limbs off of a larger trunk near the stern. Beyond that, a young woman carried water in a large bucket. Since he was here until the dream world switched, he thought he might as well have fun with it. Before long, the scenario would morph into something new as his mind processed different information from the day’s events—maybe he’d be on a tropical island next, sipping beer from a frosty mug like the commercial he had seen yesterday.

Back home, he was in bed, working his way through REM sleep.

Surely.

Dutton cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, “Hey, hang on. I’m coming. You need these beams brought up?”

And so it went. They eyed his pajamas, jacket, and sneakers with raised eyebrows. He didn’t understand a word spoken to him, and Noah and his family couldn’t understand anything Dutton said either.

Dutton thought that was odd, especially in his own dream, and odder still that he didn’t have complete control over things happening around him, which was highly unusual for a lucid dream. He decided to go with it. Perhaps he’d only achieved partial lucidity, if that was a thing.

Hours later, he found himself hammering a slat into place, and when he accidentally smashed his thumb, the pain was strikingly real.

Days and nights passed, close to a week or more, he wasn’t sure. Without clocks, phones, apps, and laptops, he lost track of time.

Noah’s family gave him a spare robe and sandals. Food and water.

He slept in the ark on a bed of hay when the sun set in the west and rose when it climbed over the horizon in the east. He worked hard, communicating through grunts and gestures until they grew to understand each other, at least enough to accomplish tasks.

He kept thinking that soon he would wake up in his bed at home.

Or, he would climb the ramp into the hull one final time and wake up.

Maybe he would sit down for mealtime, break bread with the family, and find himself in his kitchen instead.

He never did, but the time was coming; he was sure of it.

Dutton reminded himself to take notes once he finally escaped his slumber. He had a friend from medical school, Joseph Drake, who had done some work on sleep science, if he remembered correctly. Joe would love to hear about a dream this epic.

He awoke one morning to the intense drumming of pouring rain outside.

The flood
, he thought.
It’s coming.

He jumped to his feet and scampered up the closest ladder.

Up on the deck, Noah stood at the peak of the bow, a shawl wrapped around his head and shoulders. He sensed Dutton’s arrival and turned to him, a relieved smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He held out a palm, turned his eyes skyward, then gave Dutton a look that suggested, “I told you I wasn’t crazy.”

“I knew you weren’t.”

Noah pointed toward the forest and said a single word.

Look.

The animals came in pairs, just like the parable had said. Dutton smirked, wondering if his dream-state mind had created the setting based on the stories he had heard in Sunday school, the stories he had repeated at Lucy’s bedside.

Fat cattle, fluffy sheep, lumbering elephants, and lean giraffes marched side by side with lions, cheetahs, and wolves. Every animal he could imagine, friend and foe, predator and prey alike, came together in harmony, putting aside their instincts to save themselves from the storm that would flood the world.

Dutton said to Noah, “They’re really coming.”

Noah parted his arms and spoke.
Yes, all of them
.

“But what about the unicorns?” Dutton asked.

He had said it sarcastic jest. Even in this marathon of a dream, he couldn’t make his logical mind materialize a pair of horned horses, not even for Lucy’s sake. It was disheartening. Depressing.

“You rest,” he told Noah. “I’ll go down and help.”

The old man hugged him.

Thank you.

Down below, at the entrance of the hull, Dutton helped the family guide the animals inside, their words and instructions drowned out by the bleating, growling, chirping, and mooing. The elephants bellowed in their corner. The big cats roared and circled, uncomfortable in their confinement. Rodents raced across his feet. Snakes slithered and curled around the support beams.

For hours, they poked, prodded, whistled, and cajoled until every creature was on board and in their stalls or resting on the plentiful mounds of hay.

Dutton was overwhelmed by the scent of urine, dung, and wet fur, but at least the seemingly endless march of animals had all been secured.

And none too soon.

Triple bolts of lightning struck trees in the nearby forest. Thunder ripped the sky apart and the downpour intensified with such strength that Dutton could barely see the path through the field of tree stumps.

They’re all here
, he thought.
I wish Lucy could have seen this. Even without the unicorns.

Noah’s son, Shem, shouted over the howl of the storm, motioning for him to grab a nearby rope. He wanted Dutton to help close the hull door.

Dutton’s hands had been tender when he first arrived, the supple, delicate fingers of a man who spent his life caring for patients. After a few days of grueling labor, they had grown rough with hard-earned calluses. He wrapped his hands around the rough rope and pulled, feeling it slide effortlessly across the block and tackle system. The door raised inch by inch, and Shem nodded his approval.

Dutton heard a tremendous, rushing growl from far off, like nothing he had ever heard. He lifted his gaze, searching.

Then, down the path, movement.

They appeared around the bend, galloping side by side, with a wall of water three stories high giving chase. The enormous tidal wave swelled and lifted higher.

Oh my God.

He screamed, “Unicorns! Shem, wait, drop the door! Put it back down!”

Shem shook his head and pointed, terror widening his eyes, shouting back.

No. The water.

“We can’t leave them!” Dutton let go of the rope. The door lurched and fell, yanking Shem forward and onto the ground, dragging him along until he let go near the hull’s opening. Dutton sprinted down the ramp, feeling the torrential rain slamming against his face, stinging his eyes, and soaking the robe all the way through to his skin. He screamed at the unicorns. “Hurry! Faster, faster!”

The unrelenting, bellowing rush of the approaching tidal wave rose ever higher. The thunder and the rain all united to drown the sound of his voice, but he continued, begging the mythical creatures to hurry as he frantically waved his arm. He felt a strong tug on his shoulders and was spun around. Noah and Shem, together, clutching his arms and dragging him back toward the ark.