Dragon Sword Read online

  “Dad says I’m like one big WOMPER charge myself — when the cap comes in direct contact with me. It’s shielded now, but when it touches me, we fuse together to become like a giant positron —”

  “Shooting backward in time,” Mom says. She doesn’t seem overjoyed by any of this. “How did that happen?”

  “Another accident.” Which I helped cause by reaching for the cap when it popped into Dad’s time sphere in the first place. But I don’t think I’ll mention that just yet.

  “And where is your father now?”

  “Back home. Waiting for us.”

  She sighs and sits down in a big antique chair. Though I guess here it’s not an antique yet. “How is he?”

  “He misses you.”

  She doesn’t reply. “Come look,” she says. She takes some sheets of paper out of a drawer and lays them on the table. “These are my drawings.”

  I gasp. They’re me. Me.

  Except older. Like in high school or something. Sitting in a chair. Waving. And playing baseball in Herronton Woods, back near Princeton.

  “Since I couldn’t see you growing up, I tried to imagine it,” she tells me. “I would try to picture it in my head, then draw it. So I could keep connected to you somehow. So I wouldn’t lose you completely. That’s how I learned to draw. That’s why.”

  “You’re not going to lose me, Mom. I’m here.”

  “I’m glad you haven’t grown quite as much as I thought.”

  “We don’t live in New Jersey anymore, though. We moved.”

  There’s so much she doesn’t know about me and Dad now.

  “You moved?”

  “To California.”

  “Where? Here? San Francisco?”

  “Close by.”

  “Well, sit down and tell me all about it. We’ll spend Christmas Eve together. That will make me happy.” She gives me another smile, and this one seems full out, with nothing else behind it. “We can make warm Ovaltine!”

  “The chocolate stuff?”

  “It’s real big back here. Kids like it. The company makes decoder badges and other things for prizes. The boys pretend they’re Captain Midnight. That’s the big radio show Ovaltine sponsors.”

  “Captain Midnight and Danger Boy,” I say, trying it out. Sometimes it feels like I’ve fallen into a comic book, except that people I love and care about are in real danger.

  “Who’s Danger Boy?” Mom asks.

  “I’m still trying to figure it out,” I tell her. I don’t mention it’s a code name that Mr. Howe thought up for my DARPA files. Then, thinking about comics and chocolate sparks another question: “You get a lot of kid visitors?”

  “I’m a teacher, too, Eli. There’s a school in the hotel for the families who live here.” She takes out a glass jar of milk from her tiny wooden-looking refrigerator. I wonder how they made electric appliances out of wood.

  “Mom, we don’t have to spend Christmas Eve by ourselves. We can go back right now. To 2019, where you belong. It’s still fall. You can get ready for Christmas all over again, with Dad and me.”

  The smile that was sneaking back on her face when she was talking about the hot chocolate is gone now. “Eli, it isn’t that simple.”

  “Why not? As long as you’re holding on to me when I put on the cap —”

  She shakes her head.

  What possible reason could she have for not wanting to come home?

  I don’t even want to know. Except I have to. Before I get the chance to ask, there’s a frantic knocking at the door.

  Chapter Two

  Eli: Samuel Gravlox

  December 24, 1941 C.E.

  It’s the man with the bushy white hair from downstairs, the one leading the band.

  “Samuel!” Mom seems surprised to see him. “You’re supposed to be downstairs.”

  Samuel ... Samuel Gravlox! The name on the radio. ... That was the band my mom played in…

  …in 1937. She played flute in the Samuel Gravlox Orchestra. Dad and I saw it in an old newspaper that was spit out of the time sphere, right around when the cap showed up. That’s how we knew she was back here. I wonder if she was ever on the radio, too.

  “We have serious trouble tonight. There is a report that the project —” He stops when he sees me. “Who’s this?” It’s not a friendly question.

  The radio fills the brief silence. “Now, the closing theme to One Man’s Family, ‘Destiny’s Dream,’ led by guest conductor Elliot Stubin.”

  “How did he get in here?” Gravlox demands. From his tone of voice, it seems like he’s already decided not to like me.

  “He’s…” Now Mom gives me her we’re-gonna-keep-a-secret look. I guess knowing all the looks on your family’s faces is like having a decoder badge, too.

  “He’s one of the students in the school here,” Mom explains. “His parents are…caught in a blizzard, and…their train is delayed. He’s staying with me.” I notice she kind of casually moves her coat over the drawings of me on the table.

  “Christmas Eve is a terrible time to go around getting involved with strangers. At least, this particular Christmas Eve.”

  “He’s not a stranger, Samuel.”

  “Well, you’d better be sure. They sent a spy.”

  “What? Who?”

  “The Nazis, of course. It’s no secret they’d love to know what we’re up to.” He keeps staring at me. “Apparently it’s a young spy. Where did you say you’re from?” He switches so suddenly to addressing me that it catches me off guard.

  Which might be what he wants. “I…I didn’t.”

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Eli Sa, sir.” I guess me and Mom have to pretend we’re not related.

  “So, Eli, where’d you get such funny clothes?”

  “Samuel!”

  Mom is getting mad at him, but he’s not listening. Not to us. He’s turned toward the radio. A look of pain crosses his face.

  “That damn Stubin! He doesn’t know what to do with a baton! Listen to how mushy that passage is! The notes are all running together like molasses! If keeping that orchestra in line were my only job, I’d be going crazy. Well, come on, get your coat.”

  “Why?” Mom asks.

  “Because we’ve been called in for an emergency briefing. They’re worried there’s a chance of —” Then his eyes narrow, and he looks at me again. “Where did you say he was from?”

  “Valley of the Moon, near Sonoma,” I tell him, a little indignantly.

  “Well, that’s close. There shouldn’t be any blizzards there,” he says to my mom. “This boy’s parents should be here anytime. Anyway, get your things on and meet me downstairs. They’ve sent a car for us.”

  He heads for the door. “I’m going downstairs to read Stubin a little of the riot act. But don’t meet me in the Venetian Room. It’s too public. Meet me around the side entrance. I don’t want the whole band to know.”

  “Isn’t it a little too late, Samuel? The way you came up here, and with all this shouting?”

  “The Nazis can know that we’re on to them. I don’t mind that.” I mind that Gravlox shot me another look when he said that. Can’t Mom just tell him who I am? “But we don’t have to let the world know what we’re going to do about it. I haven’t told any of the others. They just want both of us out there, first. Dan doesn’t know, either.”

  “Dan?” Mom suddenly looks a little pale.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Why should I?” she says.

  “Just asking. See you downstairs. Are you sure you trust this boy?” He points right at me.

  “Absolutely.”

  Gravlox faces me again. I guess that’s better than having him talk about me like I’m not even here. “There’s a war on, young man. We’re all in on it. There’s no such thing as ‘too careful’ anymore. Tell that to your parents when they get here.” Then he pauses, and with his back to me says, “On second thought, don’t tell them anything.” He closes the door, and
his steps fade away on the hotel carpet.

  “It’s a little too late for that,” I say quietly. “You’re not really going with him, are you?”

  “Eli ...I have to.”

  “Why?”

  I can see her thinking about what she’s going to say next. “Samuel knows I’m from another time.” She reaches for her coat.

  “He does?”

  “It was his lab I…fell into. I collapsed into it, out of the time stream, after being exploded out of the laboratory your father and I had. Samuel’s a mathematician at the university across the bay, in Berkeley. He’s working on time travel, too. He created a crude device…based on atom splitting.”

  “But, Mom, they don’t time-travel now. It’s not invented yet.”

  “I know.” She’s putting on her scarf.

  “I mean, Dad barely has it invented in our own time.”

  “I know.” A mitten slides onto her hand.

  “So then why do you have to go to this meeting? And why is somebody spying on a bunch of musicians?”

  “Because, hon, the band is just a cover. For quite a few of us.”

  Now I’m confused. I thought I was going to have some cocoa with my mom, then take her home. “So what is it you really do?” I ask. “Is it the teaching?”

  “Samuel helped get me that job, too. I teach art, of all things.” She lets a quick smile break out. Now that she’s taken her coat, the drawings of me are exposed again on the table. “But that’s not what Samuel was here about,” she adds.

  “So what was it?”

  “He thinks I’m working with him and a team of other scientists to help perfect his time-travel device, so he can use it to help the Allies win the war against Germany and Japan.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m not sure.” I get another kiss. “I’ll tell you everything when I get back. Stay right here. Listen to the radio. Take a nap. Order room service if you want to. But do not leave this room — not even to go downstairs. And merry Christmas, Eli. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Even if no one’s supposed to know I’m you’re son.”

  “No, they’re not. If Samuel thought there was another time traveler here, his hair would turn even whiter. And they might not let you go home, either. Bye-bye, sweetie.” She heads for the door but turns around to look at me again before she leaves. “I really can’t believe you’re here.” The door closes, and now her footsteps fade away, too.

  I’m alone on Christmas Eve, sixty-six years before I was born.

  Where’s that cocoa?

  I start looking around on what I guess are Mom’s kitchen shelves — small planks of wood near her sink — but all I see are Saltines, a half- eaten loaf of sourdough bread, a little block of cheese, and a tin of coffee. I guess finding rice milk to heat up with the Ovaltine is out of the question.

  That’s when I notice the present. Again. Mom left it on the table, near the drawings. It’s wrapped in green paper, with a bright red ribbon; and her name, written in ink that’s bright red, too, is on a little white tag: Margarite.

  I wonder who it’s from.

  She’s had a whole different life here these last five years, one I don’t know anything about.

  Who does she celebrate Christmas with now? A little corner of the package is ripped, and

  I can see something that looks like…

  It is. A picture. Not a changing digital display, but a single, flat picture in a frame. One of those old photos.

  But like the “antique” chair, this one isn’t old yet, either. I pick it up and hold it near the light. It looks like Mom’s face inside. Maybe I can see a little more of it if I pull the paper and peek…

  It’s ripped. I tore the wrapping. Well, since I’m gonna have to retape it anyway, I might as well see…

  It’s Mom, all right. With some man. She’s in the orchestra, standing up, sharing a duet with a guy in a suit, with slicked-back hair. She’s on her flute, and he’s playing some kind of jumbo clarinet. The whole thing might not be such a big deal, except that the photo is signed: Here’s to more great music together! Dan the Oboe Man.

  Dan the Oboe Man. Dan the Oboe Man. There’s an envelope stuck in the frame. On the outside, in the same handwriting as the inscription on the photo, is another note: I’m playing chamber music. Meet me there. I’ll send a car. It’ll be fun.

  Oh, will it?

  Inside is a fancy invitation to some kind of art show:

  A Christmas Eve benefit at the de Young, for the museum and for war bonds!

  You’re invited to preview the new exhibit, “Myths, Legends, & Truths:

  Fantastic Objects from History.”

  A festive night with an ancient Yuletide theme!

  Merry flippin’ Christmas. This guy wants a date with my mom.

  Then something else occurs to me: How do I know he hasn’t already had one?

  I forget all about the Ovaltine.

  A few minutes later, the phone starts to ring. It takes me a little while to figure out that it is a phone — the ringing seems too loud, and it’s coming from this small-but-heavy appliance on the table by the bed. Plus it’s wired to the wall. Then I remember that phone Dad and I saw in the motel in Vinita, Oklahoma, the one he thought belonged in some kind of museum. This lunky thing is a lot like that one.

  Maybe it’s Mom. “Hello?”

  There’s a muffled reply. I’m speaking into the wrong end. I turn the hand piece around. “Hello?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Who’s this?” I don’t sound like a ma’am, and I’m not in the mood for anyone to play jokes on me on some olden-day Christmas Eve when I’m trying to figure out if my mom has a secret life.

  “This is the front desk. Is Margarite Franchon there?”

  Franchon? That’s her unmarried name. “I can take a message.”

  “Please let her know her car is ready.”

  “What car?”

  “Her cab. The driver is here to take Miss Franchon to the museum.”

  Miss?

  “Ma’am?”

  I don’t reply to that.

  “Did you get the message?” I got it all right.

  I slam down the phone.

  Oh, yeah, I got it. My mom’s head got all screwed up in the time blast that sent her back here, and she’s not sure who she is. She’s not sure what’s real.

  The picture she drew of me, of what I might look like at fifteen, is staring back at me, next to the photo of her and Dan the Oboe Man.

  I’m not sure what’s real anymore, either. But I’m gonna go downstairs to find out.

  Chapter Three

  Thea: My New School

  10,271 S.E. (Second Epoch, Saurian Time)

  It’s quite a magical night here on Saurius Prime. It reminds me of one of our festival nights in Alexandria — perhaps a summer celebration of a lunar eclipse, with lanterns in the streets and people wandering the boulevards with cups of spiced wine or lemon juice sweetened with honey.

  Mother would let me stay up very late on such nights. I miss her so much. But I carry her here in my heart.

  And I am quite far from Alexandria, while Alexandria is quite far from being able to celebrate anything in her streets. The last time I saw those streets, they were on fire. I escaped with my two time-traveling friends, Eli, from Earth’s future, and K’lion, the lizard man — “dinosaur” in Eli’s language — whose home is here on this planet, Saurius Prime.

  I’m not sure where in the cosmos we are. I’ve tried to map it out with the telescopes that have been provided for me, and though I seem to recognize many of the constellations, I wonder if it’s a trick of my eyes. Or my emotions. This can’t be Earth.

  Can it?

  Soon, however, I plan to get back to more familiar night skies.

  “Thea-chick?”

  It’s Gandy. She looks after me now. She’s a bit rounder than K’lion, and older. She wears two circular lenses in front of her eyes — she calls them simply “glasses�
��— to help her see, and she clucks over me like an aunt. Which is sweet, as Mother had no siblings, and I never had an aunt. Especially not one the size of a small tree. Her skin is the most marvelous speckled green and blue.

  “Thea?”

  “I’m writing in my journal, Gandy. Another moment.”

  “You are always writing, nest-T-TT-TT-ling.” The Saurians have been gracious — and curious — enough to learn my tongue and speak it to me, even though they can’t help but add sounds and ticks of their own. But I’m glad, for I doubt I shall ever learn to speak

  Saurian.

  “I’m a scientist, Gandy. I keep records.” I am apparently a curiosity, too — a mammal who has evolved to sentient form. The Saurians still scarcely believe it, since their experience of mammals until now has been one of trying not to step on the small furry creatures who scamper underfoot here on this humid jungle planet of theirs.

  “Yes, moonleaf, but surely there can’t —tk!— be many other mammals who read?”

  I would remind her that it was the Saurian Science Academy who asked me to keep a record of my experiences here. They’ve been studying me, and I’ve been studying them, writing in these fresh scrolls that they’ve generously provided. Though the words writing and scrolls may not be quite accurate.

  The “scrolls” are long, gossamer sheets with thin filaments running through them, similar, they tell me, to the apparatus provided to K’lion to record his schoolwork while on his journey.

  There is a stylus you can use for the traditional type of writing that I, of course, am used to.

  However, the stylus can also keep a record of one’s voice and translate it immediately into writing on the scroll sheet itself. Mine comes with what they call a “lingo-spot” so that my scroll may understand me.

  But no matter how strange the devices provided to me by the Saurians, I suspect I strike them as stranger still. How could it be otherwise?