The Time Travel Chronicles (23 page)

"Dad, help me," I said into the quiet. "Please."

There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. Did I really expect one? I stretched out my hand. My fingerless gloves were worn and smudged with grease. My fingernails were dirty. I had stopped cleaning them a few weeks ago. The dust of the forge had settled deep into my skin. I touched the tip of the switch, applied a little bit of pressure, not quite enough to move the lever. I breathed in and out once more and flipped the switch. Except the echoing sound of the switch itself, there was nothing. The battery should have released electrical current into the large capacitor and from there, a charge should have jumped up and over the top of the cabin to the back where the centrifugal rotor was installed.

So silly, I thought. Did I really think this would work? I sat there for a while. The knot in my stomach slowly grew. The feeling of failure was a thin blanket over the truth — the realization that I had spent the last six weeks trying to avoid the unavoidable. That this was a well-meant gift from my father to occupy my mind and get through the hardest part of the grieving process. It had worked. Up until now. The tears blurred my vision. It was as if the ground below me gave way and I’d dropped into a dark nothing. The pain, as excruciating as it was when I had felt it a few weeks ago, was so powerful now that I keeled over in my seat. I opened my mouth but no sound escaped it. I couldn't breathe or form words or even thoughts except the one that I would never see my dad again. Ever. That he was gone and I had no way of feeling his hand on my shoulder or him ruffling my hair.

I began to moan. It seemed to help with the pain. My moans became louder. I saw my hands holding the bars of the seat on either side. I didn't feel the cold of the pipes beneath my fingers. And when I could not hold it in any longer, I screamed. It was as if all my pain, my heartache, and the loss of my father's love, my father's big love, was in that scream. My voice was raw and I let it swell to a high-pitched sound while everything poured out of me and into the world. At that moment, it was as if he had called me and I had answered...

The blue spark was blinding, and even though it was brief, I couldn't see anything for a few seconds. It was followed by the sound of the arc — the moment the welding rod connected with the steel. It obliterated my scream for an instant. A second spark followed. I could see that it came from the front where the battery compartment was installed.

And then, through the blur that was my tears, I saw the charge leave the capacitor and rip across the top of the cabin to the back. I felt my hair standing up in all directions. A snapping sound was followed by a deep humming sound. The light in the storage room was suddenly so bright that I had to close my eyes. When I opened them again, the walls of the shed were bathed in golden light. The machine was activated.

When I lifted my left foot, it shook uncontrollably. But I was afraid the activation was only temporary and I wanted to go back as fast as I could. I put my foot onto the pedal and applied the tiniest amount of pressure. The alarm clock display moved. First, it was only a few minutes. Then a dozen and, next, an hour. I took my foot off the pedal. The display moved another hour before it stopped. Saturday, December 22nd, 3:08AM. I didn't see anything different in the shed. The light was as bright as before. I pushed the pedal down again. The display went back a few more hours and into Friday the 21st. I increased pressure and skipped three days at once before I slowed down again.

Gently, I reminded myself.

I figured it would be best to go back to a weekday morning, maybe three months ago. I would be at school then and my dad would most likely be in his shop. I could tell him that I had come home from school earlier and he wouldn't get suspicious, especially if I came in through the main front door. I pushed the pedal down again, this time a little harder. The days became a week, then two and three. I slowed down again, applied only minimal pressure until I came to September 14th. I stopped at 10:52AM. For a moment, I wasn't sure whether to turn the machine off or not. I decided to leave it on. Other than someone actually stepping into the shed, nobody from the outside would notice it was there.

I moved the cabin top to the side and climbed out. I tried to look at the centrifugal rotor but the light was too intense. I would need a welding mask to be able to see it. I left through the back door and was hit by a breeze of warm air. The snow was gone. The trees had not even started to yellow. My mittens. I’d completely forgotten to take off my winter clothes. I decided to leave my gloves, wool cap, and jacket next to the door of the shed. I still felt a bit overdressed.

My heart was pounding as I walked around the barn to the front door. I felt like I had sawdust in my mouth. I heard the metallic banging sound of a hammer on steel before I reached the door. I couldn't remember having ever heard something that made me happier. I opened the door and stepped inside.

He stood next to the forge, a large hammer in his hand, wearing his leather apron and a short-sleeve shirt. He saw me and without stopping, he said, "What are you doing here so early?"

I couldn't answer. I tried to smile but my face muscles didn't follow my order. They began to twitch suddenly.

"Oh, Dad," was all I could whisper before I ran to him and held him in my arms. I couldn't stop the tears from coming. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to make him suspicious that this was anything other than an early dismissal from school and me being happy to see him.

"There, there," he said. "What's the matter?"

He placed the hammer on the side of the forge.

"You okay?"

For a long time I couldn't say anything.

"Yes," I said eventually. "I'm okay. I just wanted to say hi and see how you're doing."

"I'm doing fine. But I need to get different coal. This one burns too dirty. Can you smell it?"

"Yeah," I said, suddenly happy over the sulfury smell in the shop.

"Is everything all right? You seem upset."

"I'm okay. Just missed you, that's all."

"Okay. Then let me get this formed before it cools down too much."

"Okay," I said. "Sounds good."

He picked up the hammer again and pushed the metal piece he was working on back into the embers.

"See you later," I said.

"Yep. See you later."

I left the barn with the sound of the hammer ringing in my ears. As I walked around back, I felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted from me. When I looked through the dirt-smudged window, I saw my father stop hammering for a moment. As if he’d just thought of something. Then he shook his head and continued.

I stood behind the storage shed for a few minutes and let the sun warm my face. Then I entered, picked up my gloves, jacket, and wool cap and climbed into the machine. I closed the cabin top and began to push the right pedal down. The days on the display passed by. When it moved into December, I slowed down. I don't know what had changed, but I wasn't sad anymore. Maybe it was knowing that I could visit him whenever I wanted. Or maybe it was good enough to see him doing something he had loved so much.

My eyes were fixed on the display. I felt the pedal beneath my right foot, the pressure of the forward motion against my leg. When December 22nd approached, something in me clicked. The Traveler must exercise the greatest caution to not set off a chain of events she cannot foresee. I realized that he must have known, that he must have thought this encounter to be too strange to have been a normal occurrence. Did my visit, as brief as it was, change his outlook in any way?

And while I pondered the ever paradoxical nature of travelling through time, I knew, suddenly and unmistakably, what he had said back in the hospital room. He didn't say, "Draw." Nor did he say, "Drawer." It sounded like it because those were the only words I could think of at that moment. No. It wasn't druh, it was trah. It was the way he pronounced the ‘a’ differently. More like an uh. He must have known that I had built the machine and came back to him.

It wasn't drawer. It was traveler.

A Word from Stefan Bolz

In Germany, the concept of the apprenticeship is deeply engrained in the country's cultural past. I myself went through a three-and-a-half-year program as a teenager where I learned everything from welding and iron work to woodworking, milling, inching and building electrical circuits. The relationship between the apprentice and the master has always been regarded as a privilege for both -- the master seeing in the apprentice his own skills transferred to the next generation, and for the apprentice to be able to learn from someone's knowledge, accumulated over a lifetime. If the master of the apprentice is her father, the bond is even stronger.

As a kid, 
The Time Machine
 was my favorite movie. I must have watched it a dozen times at least. I loved every minute of it and always wanted to build one for myself. Now, being a writer, I can do that.

Lately I've become aware of the common thread that weaves through all of my books and stories. This is very similar to standing in the basket of a hot air balloon and lifting off, gently floating upward and now, for the first time, seeing the surrounding area, where the paths connect and where they lead, the open vistas and the horizon. This one thread is the notion that there is an exponential amount of power that sleeps in all of us. It is the power to do things we can, as of right now, only imagine. Sometimes, for 'ordinary' people to discover that power, extraordinary things have to occur; things that call us to reach deep down and search for that strength in which nearly anything is possible.

I'm deeply grateful to Samuel Peralta for giving me the opportunity to contribute to his 
Future Chronicles
series. Einstein once said that imagination is more powerful than knowledge. I agree whole heartedly. The stories in the 
Future Chronicles
series are a feast for the imagination, an invitation to boldly go where no one has gone before (I had to throw this in here, for geek cred :-) ). It is my hope that “The Traveler” reaches the heart of my readers, transporting them to a place where nothing is impossible, even crossing the boundaries of time.

You can find my books at 
www.stefanbolz.thirdscribe.com
.

by Erik Wecks

I
FIRST LOST CONTROL OF MY MIND when I was thirteen.

It happened in the cafeteria, just before I sat down with my school lunch. I decided to impress my buddies by not so coyly taking a look down Alexis Johnson’s shirt, who was already sitting. As usual, she had left the top and second buttons undone. To my hormone-addled mind, the visible downward valley was a provocation. It demanded that I try to see more.

Every once in a while she’d catch me. Clutching at her shirt with one hand, she’d turn and hit me weakly with the other, calling me a pervert. Yet she never came to school with less buttons open, and it didn’t stop her from kissing me when we were alone. She even let me cop a feel a few times, though at first she was always quick to push my hand away. Not once did her obvious discomfort influence the way I treated her. I thought it was funny. She was my girl, and I took it for granted that my ownership status gave me certain privileges.

Hell, that’s embarrassing to write! It’s almost stopped me cold again. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, stuck in loops of tangled regret. When the vast bulk of your life is behind you, one thought triggers a cascade of others, and you zoom off on a journey that you never intended to take.

I guess that makes sense when the future is measured in an unknowable number of days instead of years. It certainly wasn’t that way when I was thirteen.

Up until that point, my life had been almost completely rudderless. My parents split when I was five. It crushed me. Seven decades of hindsight allows me at least that much clarity. At the time, I just felt confused, but I put on a brave face and smiled big when I went to my dad’s for the weekend. Boys learn early that men aren’t allowed vulnerability.

Weekends at my dad’s were where my real troubles began. He never did well after my mom left. He drank—a lot. I suspect that meant he loved her, but he never was much for expressing his mind. Truth is, he was never a fighter. Oh, he’d yell, but if he ever felt backed into a corner, he’d just leave. He’d go to a friend’s house, drink, and play Cards Against Humanity or something. My mom tried for years to connect with him. In the end, she just gave up. I don’t think he made an effort in any relationship ever again. He certainly didn’t with me. Our weekends together consisted of playing the latest iteration of Assassin’s Creed or RPGing at one of his buddy’s houses. At the time, I thought it all grand. I used to love going to his house where rules didn’t exist, where you could do whatever you wanted.

I guess you’re going to have to forgive an old man his rambling. When you’re young, there are things about the old that you swear you will never imitate. Then you get old, and you do them anyway.

Enough, back to thirteen—a very lucky number. The cracks in my dam were already apparent by the fall of my eighth grade year. It’s the usual story: fighting at school, poor grades, messing around with Lexi, experimentation with pot and alcohol—both supplied willingly by my dad—even a run-in with the police for petty shoplifting. I was a time bomb waiting for zero.