Reading “The Weight” on AO3 right now. Just desperately need some pure escapism. A couple of chapters in and I’m already tearful. lol and I’m not even a Trekkie. Always a dabbler at best. Then again, there’s been plenty to be tearful about recently, so…
🤷♂️
I wonder if you were intending to time travel how far back you could go, and still be covered for the majority of diseases with today's vaccinations. #medicine#science#timetravel
The initial prototype was a plusgood success. At least it disappeared and never reappeared with no trace elements. The thoughtwise conclusion was that it made it to another space-time location.
It was, in basic terms, a device to doubleplus focus the user's interpolation of this moment allowing them to think of any moment, folding the particle wave into that result.
The Chronomech did not doubleplus undo entropy, it resultwise ignored it entirely.
Later models were able to focus larger areas that also encompassed the user.
In front of us rose a dense wall of low, tangled scrub, and beyond that, the jagged silhouette of tall trees loomed against the night sky. I could identify palm trees among them. A cool breeze blew off the ocean, along with the steady drum of the surf. Out of the wind, the night was warm and humid. The air smelled of salt, leaf mold, and something faintly acrid.
“Heinr… Henrietta—Bijou?” She faltered and then asked, “What should I call you? That professor called you Henrietta something-or-other, but that’s not the name you gave me.”
“Mademoiselle Henrietta Dubois is dead, and I don’t even remember what her life was like. But Henrietta is easier than Luminelle. So, Henrietta Bijou will do.”
“Should I call you Hetty or Retta? What would you like?”
“Bijou. It’s easy, and what you’ve been calling me.”
“Okay, Bijou… Do you think there are timeparticles where there was no Great War and another war with Germany fizzles out?”
“It’s possible. If there are other time-travelers, it’s something they might want to do. Then again, maybe not. I’m guessing there’re forces working against that. Someone or something ransacked my office and murdered me.”
“Rabbits?”
“That seems like a good guess.”
“It never stops, does it, Bijou? We just keep doing it over and over.”
I changed the subject. Not to be a #jerk, but the conversation stirred up the shadows of uncomfortable memories and feelings. “I think I know where we are. Not the name, but the historical event. Let’s go find Amelia.”
I turned and walked down the beach. I found myself singing.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
…
Gone for soldiers, every one.
…
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn? [Note 2]
I finished the song as we rounded a shallow point. Emily took my hand, and we stopped to look out over the water. The night was peaceful. The surf, the scuttling of crabs, and the wind in the nearby brush sang a mournful refrain to the lyrics: “When will they ever learn?”
“That’s a sad song. I’ve never heard it before,” Emily said and sang a snatch, “‘Covered with flowers every one.’” Then she added, “Flanders Fields goes, ‘Loved and were loved, and now we lie, in Flanders fields.’ I hate the rest of the poem.”
A fish splashed out in the water.
Emily continued. “I used to believe that at least they were at peace. The guns were silent, and treaties were inked. I thought, ‘We’re done with war, and they can rest.’ But here we are, ghosts. You’re from the future, singing another sad song about the needless dying. The guns don’t stay silent long, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” I said. “Nor the sound of jackboots. ‘Gotta get down to it. Soldiers are gunning us down.’ That’s from another song—the rabbits scare me.” [Note 3]
Emily was facing me now. Her eyes shone under the newly risen tropical moon. For the first time, I noticed the slight Asian cast to them, which made sense given her last name, Pang. A #mist had drifted in from the sea, casting a romantic halo around her face. “She isn’t bad-looking,” I thought, “if only there were fewer sharp edges to her personality.”
“Those lyrics sound angry,” Emily said. “But I think I understand. Like when we opened fire on the veterans in the Hoovervilles.” [Note 1]
“Yeah, it was like that. The National Guard shot students protesting a war. I have a question for you. Don’t answer if it’s none of my business, but as someone in military intelligence who’s also anti-communist, I wouldn’t expect you to be anti-militaristic.”
“That wasn’t a question,” she #pronounced, “but I’ll answer the one you meant to ask. Have you seen innocent people get shot? Or what an artillery shell can do to someone? I have.”
“I suppose it’s time I told you a little about myself. I’m told I take after my grandmother, a strong-willed woman. She was Chinese and met a dashing American officer. They later married. As you’d imagine, that caused quite a scandal. Not that anyone in the family talks about it.”
“I avoided marriage by becoming a stringer for the Arkham Daily Star. I think Grandma would have approved. My family didn’t.”
“It sounds like you admire her. Did you ever meet her?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I wish I had.”
Emily picked up a shell and tossed it into the water. “Anyway, about me. In 1927, I was in Shanghai when Chiang Kai-shek purged the Communists. It was the right time and place for me, though not for the thousands who were slaughtered. The streets literally ran red. I survived and sent dispatches home. That’s when the service recruited me.”
Her voice grew quieter. “I also witnessed what happened to the Bonus Army when we fired on our own veterans. I’ve seen it all and have no love for it.” [Note 2] [Note 3]
She finished simply: “I love my country, but not war and violence.”
“Thank you,” I said, starting down the beach again. I wondered how we matched up. She was a tough lady. From what I could tell, I’d been a professor who enjoyed food, alcohol, and esoteric studies. The image I had of myself was a soft spinster type. She wanted to save the universe, and I just wanted to gadfly around.
I wasn’t one for self-flagellation, so I set those thoughts aside. “Let’s look for Amelia,” I said.
“I agree.” If I read Emily’s tone correctly, she was glad to leave the subject behind.
The ocean mist that was drifting in was #pleasant after the night's muggy warmth. The beach had been fairly straight until this point, but with the limited visibility, we almost fell into what I guessed was an inlet to a lagoon. Soggy, burnt wood was mixed with the sand, and its faint odor perfumed the air. We still hadn’t seen Amelia, and I was more convinced than ever that I knew where we were. It was the #worst option, the one place I’d prayed we wouldn’t find ourselves.
“I think I hear something,” Emily said, pointing inland.
When I listened, I thought I heard crying, but it could have been the wind. “That way is as good as any,” I said.
The sound faded as we walked along the beach. No matter how hard I listened, all I could hear was the wind, the surf, and the scuttling of crabs, some of which were as big as a cat or small dog.
The memory of a pretty papillon named "Rindy" floated up into my consciousness, and I wondered if he had been mine.
“There it is again,” Emily said.
This time, I could plainly hear a woman weeping. The sound came from in front of us, off to the right.
“Amelia, Amelia Earhart!” I yelled, and the weeping stopped.
“There’s a path,” Emily said, pointing to a rough trail leading inland through the trees.
“I’m here! Thank God at last,” came a shout from the direction the path led.
We followed the voice and soon found a clearing. In the center were the ashes of a fire, scattered coconut, and crab shells. The scent of the jungle and sea mingled with the sour-sweet stench of death. On the far side of the fire lay a rotting corpse. Crabs that had nearly picked the skeleton clean scurried away from our light. The word “#gross” almost escaped my lips.
Just beyond stood a woman dressed in aviator clothes. We had found Amelia Earhart.
“At last! I thought no one would find us,” Amelia said. “Fred went to find water; we have none. He’s been gone a long time.” She waved toward a row of coconut shells on the clearing's edge. Her rambling speech gave no hint of what our eyes could plainly see: a rotting skeleton and the jungle visible through the aviator’s translucent body.
I whispered to Emily so that the apparition couldn’t hear. “In 1937, Amelia Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, disappeared while crossing the Pacific. I don’t think she knows she’s dead. We need to break it to her slowly.”
“I didn’t hear a plane,” Amelia resumed. “Did you come from Howland Island? We missed it. Thank goodness we spotted Gardner.” [Note 5]
As we stood there, trying to figure out what to say, the moon topped the surrounding trees. The apparition became even fainter.
“I need to tend the signal fire,” she said, gliding by us. It felt like a chill wind, and in the warm tropical night, it raised goosebumps on my skin. Inland, a bird #piped, eerie and forlorn.
“I suppose we should follow her,” I said, starting back down the track. “You’re lucky you weren’t caught in an obsessive loop like her.”
“Explain?”
“Classical ghost stories feature spirits caught in a loop created by unfulfilled desires, grudges, or death trauma. They’re doomed to repeat the same actions over and over.”
She nodded. “I might have been, except you came along. We wouldn’t be traveling through time except for you.”
She paused, thinking, then spoke. “Neither of us is a typical ghost, especially you. Are you sure you’re even a ghost?”
“It’s the only term I can come up with.”
The mist was thicker when we emerged from the jungle. White tendrils passed over the moon, causing an unsettling flicker. The clicking of crabs communicating had ceased in the direction the ghostly form had gone. Behind us, the sound resumed.
We didn’t have to walk far before Amelia came into view again. She stood where the inlet met the sea. Creamy currents ran past her as the lagoon emptied. A signal fire danced in front of her. Its ghostly blue flames #curled and flickered. The exposed white coral behind her blended into her ethereal form. She appeared to be the spirit of the island itself: white coral edging a deep indigo ocean. It wasn’t the weirdest thing I had ever seen, but it was close.
Emily grabbed my arm, and we stopped. Turning to face her, I waited for her to speak.
“How are we going to convince her she’s a ghost?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She nodded. “We might not be able to do things like stop the Great War, but we can do little things, like freeing her.”
“We can do that, but there might be more we can do. Next, let’s find out more about the rabbits. I think they’re up to no good.”
We approached Amelia and the signal fire. Its #blue flames gave off no heat, chilling us instead.
Stopping a few feet from Ms. Earhart. My prepared speech froze in my throat when she spoke.
“See the clouds?” She asked, staring at the sky that rimmed the ocean. “I’ve always loved flying in their midst and wondered what they said. I imagined them whispering their #most guarded secrets: ‘Life is short; soar.’ If there’s a God, surely he must speak through them.”
She raised a ghostly hand and pointed to the mist moving across the moon. “Tonight, they say, there will be an end.”
Her hand dropped, and she turned toward us. “You came to rescue me?”
“No. Just to visit.” I said. The comment was deliberately cryptic. I wanted to draw her in slowly.
“Then I’ll have to wait for a ship,” she said.
Emily spoke next. “There won’t be a ship. Nobody comes for you.”
“Then they’ve given up? Forgotten?” Amelia’s voice was thin. The last word was edged with despair.
“A hundred years from now, they’ll still be searching. You’ll still be inspiring women to be bold. That’s your legacy,” I said.
“Legacy,” her voice now laced with pride.
“Noonan?” she asked.
“He’s dead, too,” I said.
“So this is the end they foretold.” Her hand swept, taking in the sky. “Not a rescue, but death.”
“It’s time to soar. The clouds want to share their secrets with you.” Unlike her usual pragmatic tone, Emily’s voice held deep compassion. It touched me.
“You no longer need wings.” Emily continued. “Let go of the earth and take flight.”
A smile touched Amelia’s face for the first time. “Thank you. I didn’t realize. But I’ll be back. I want to be the first woman in space.”
With that, she faded. #God rays streamed from the moon, illuminating her. Then they were gone, and with them, Amelia Earhart vanished.
All that remained were the #marble-like embers of her fire. #Moon-bright #pellets that winked at us.
The spheres were round robin egg-sized #opals or #moonstones, with smoky #blue fire in their depths and pleasantly cool to the touch.
“Those could be dangerous,” Emily said. “I would hate for something bad to happen to you. I’ve never been much use for intellectuals, but I like you.”
“Thanks.” Then, in a faltering voice, I said, “I like you too. I’m glad we met.”
Holding out my hand, I continued, “You should take two of these.”
I was met with a questioning look, so I added, “It doesn’t make sense, but nothing that’s happened to me recently does. I just have a feeling that these were meant for us.”
Her fingers briefly touched mine as she took the spheres. Her fingertips were warm. Surprising for a ghost. That was another strange thing. But I was glad.
“Shall we find out about our ‘friends,’ the rabbits?'” I said, my hand still outstretched.
It tingled faintly in my grasp—a comforting feeling.
The foggy tropical night faded, replaced by a lush #emerald-#green light streaming down like sunlight #filtered through a stained-glass window, so brilliant that I was temporarily blinded.
Until my eyes adjusted to the emerald light, I thought we were still on Gardner Island. I could hear the surf, now sluggish, and the air was warm and humid.
My first hint that we had truly moved in time was the smell. The air still reeked of decay but now carried a resinous tang and the heavy musk of mud. Insect buzzing and a cicada-like chorus replaced the clicking of crabs.
As my eyes adjusted, the first thing I saw was a slow-moving stream edged with cattails as tall as me. It’s muddy water mixed with the turquoise ocean, lying in front of me. Turning around, I saw we were standing under tall conifers mixed with tree ferns. Their broad fronds filtered the light, casting a lush stained-glass pattern on the thick blanket of ferns and moss beneath them.
Emily gasped and pointed upward. Through a gap in the fern fronds, I saw small pterodactyls swooping down over the ocean like swallows.
The joke had gone right over her head. “It was a film,” I explained.
“The Lost World, Conan Doyle,” she said, matching my tone. I had the advantage, though. I’d heard of that.
“Journey to the Center of the Earth, Jules Verne,” I said. She would know that one.
“But we’re outside.” Emily’s comment #stemmed the flow of titles.
“Touché,” I said and watched her smile grow broader.
“Don’t move; there’s a damson fly on your back,” Emily said, stepping toward me. She slowly reached out to catch it, only for her hand to close on nothing. Her smile faded. “I forgot I’m a ghost. It’s still there. It’s huge and has lovely gold eyes and translucent blue wings. I wanted to show it to you.”
“I smiled and let her mispronunciation of damselfly pass. It was cute, given her normally proper speech.
“We should look for a hill and see if we can find a clue about where to go,” I said. Wandering aimlessly through the jungle behind us or walking along the beach, exposed to predators, didn’t appeal to me. Scenes from “Jurassic Park” played in my mind, like being chased by a T-Rex or some of smaller carnivores whose names I couldn’t recall.
It was quieter than in the movies, though. The only things I heard were the surf, the buzz of huge dragonflies, and swarms of gnats from the river. As for larger animals, all I’d seen were pterodactyls about the size of eagles and a glimpse of brontosaurus-like herbivores grazing in the waters of the river’s silty delta.
“I have a better idea,” Emily said. “I’ll fly up high and look around. You can look down here for clues, but watch out. I saw a small lizard over there.” She pointed to a thicket of short palm-like plants. Their stiff, waxy, blue-green fronds glistened faintly in the humid air and provided an excellent hiding place for whatever she’d seen.
While Emily scouted above, I gingerly poked at the undergrowth with a branch I picked up. When the #weedy growth proved resistant to my efforts, I persisted, using my hands when necessary.
Emily was descending when I found something interesting covered in moss, which I tore away. The first thing I noticed were bugs that looked similar to ones I was familiar with. However, I soon lost interest in them, pausing uneasily.
The gigantic half-buried vertebra that had first caught my attention paled in significance next to the carved chunk of obsidian lying just beyond it. Rust-red streaks mottled the stone, which bore the carving of a toadish face with bulging eyes, drooping lids, and flabby lips pulled back to reveal small, sharp teeth. Its neckless head merged into a body only hinted at.
“That shouldn’t be here,” Emily said, staring at the carving I had discovered.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But there it is.”
“Humans haven’t evolved yet.”
“There are sentient rabbits and who knows what else that science hasn’t revealed.”
She shivered and nodded. “The rock is foreign too. I didn’t see any volcanic activity.”
“Is that what you think is unnatural here?” I moved to toe the carving, but thought better of it. “It’s positively Lovecraftian!”
Emily looked blank, so I amended my statement to: “Nightmarish and occult, hinting at secrets and things that are better left unknown.”
“Sounds like the Nazis. And on a different subject, there is a ridge with limestone caves that way.” She pointed to the jungle. “There are some rough trails we can use, but be careful; there are big dinosaurs on them.”
I superstitiously covered the cursed stone #back up. I felt it would cause less harm that way.
She pointed at the stream. “Follow that for a hundred feet and you'll find a trail, oh, ‘Girl of the #Limberlost.’ I’ll fly overhead and warn you of any major dangers. Take care and keep your eyes peeled, or you’ll be in the soup.”
For a second, I thought she meant I’d fall into the murky river. I smiled as I deciphered it. It was my turn to be blindsided by period slang. The reference to “The Girl of the Limberlost” especially threw me. But, as a #Johnny-come-lately, shouldn’t I have had an advantage here?
"Roger that," I replied. That was from the '40s, wasn’t it?
“That’s solid. Let’s get this show on the road,” she responded, beginning to drift up.
It was interesting how my view of Emily had changed. At first, I had found her humorless and grouchy, almost #cantankerous. She was definitely serious, but she had a humorous side and was perfectly capable of engaging in verbal sparring.
She was a bit sadistic too. I could tell by the way her lips turned up in a smile as I pushed my way through the thick forest growth, and by her uproarious laughter when a #pillbox-shaped bug as big as my fist caused me to shriek in surprise.
We eventually reached the “trail,” a muddy, trampled swath of land that ambled through the forest. Fallen trees littered the path, and huge footprints lurked in the dense ferns, threatening to break the legs of the unwary. The expedition clothes I had manifested soon turned into leather chaps and a jacket. Despite the heat, it was better than being #rent by the long dagger-like thorns that hid amid the foliage.
My attempts to transform my clothes into futuristic lightweight armor were a flop. There were clearly limits to my power. As an experiment, I tried to manifest money and then a gun. Again, the experiments failed. I had better luck with manifesting a machete.
My woes weren't limited to the heat and flora. Clouds of gnats followed me. A safari hat with mosquito netting helped, but hindered my movement through the brush. The machete and short stints of immateriality were helpful, but tiring. Indiana Jones, I wasn’t.
I was about to test whether an elephant gun would manifest, as it was a more appropriate weapon for the Jurassic era, when Emily shouted, “Off the trail! We have company!”
The edge of the path was about thirty meters away, with a tangle of crushed fern-trees and cattails blocking my way. The ground shook. At first, I frantically tried to scramble toward the edge, pulling at the ferns and clambering over logs. Ferns slapped my face leaving it stinging, and thorns tore at my clothes.
“Ahrrr.” My knee buckled as my leg plunged into a footprint the size of a drainage pipe and as deep as a #post-hole.
I tried to pull my leg out, mud dragging at it. I pulled harder, and my foot pulled out of my boot. Pain shot up my leg. It felt like my knee had become dislocated. Brown streaks and stars blurred my vision.
“I was a ghost,” I thought. “This shouldn't be happening.”
But it was.
I had to do something. Not only was the ground shaking, but I could also hear crashing trees and thunderous footsteps, like a stampede of elephants.
Time was running out.
“Breathe, breathe,” I whispered to myself. “Calm down. You can #cope. Breath. Fade away.”
The pain ebbed, and I floated up and then through the wreckage blocking my way until I was deep inside the forest. Once there, I materialized and collapsed. At least I hadn’t passed out as I did at the aerodrome.
My relief was brief. Overhead, the trees thrashed as if in a hurricane, and beneath me, the ground rolled in waves. The air was full of the sound of splintering timber. Deep booming grunts, like those of a giant hippo, drowned my scream as the head of a brontosaurus-like creature appeared. Vegetation dangled from its mouth like insane Christmas #decorations.
My instincts kicked in, and I tried to scramble deeper into the brush, but I couldn't move. I couldn’t feel my legs and when I tried to lift my arms, my hands only flopped. All I could do was close my eyes and pray.
The rumbling of the behemoths diminished and then vanished. I opened my eyes. Emily was seated nearby on a mossy log with her mouth set in a concerned line.
“You okay?” she asked, biting her lip.
I felt heavy, and my legs were numb, but I could sit up. “Yeah, but I need to rest. I panicked a bit there.”
A smile touched her lips, easing the pinched look on her face. “I’ll say. Anyone would with those things coming at them.”
“How much more of this is there?”
“The good news is we can cut over to the ridge about a quarter mile out. The bad news is the slope’s wide open, so we’ll be plain as day. And believe me, there are some mean customers out there. Those boys weren’t stampeding for the sheer fun of it.”
My smile felt stiff. I could picture “mean customers” with lots of sharp teeth.
“Buck up; it’s the toll for being able to enjoy food and drink. Besides, you’re pretty spry. You have turning ectoplasmic down pat. If you didn’t—Ghost flapjacks.”
I laughed, “Ghost flapjacks,” that was a wonderful turn of phrase.
“Well, we’d better get moving. It looks like the no-man’s-land after the Jerries gave it a good shellacking.”
I groaned and got up, but was pleased to find my knee was better. There were lots of advantages of being a ghost.
My pleasure didn’t last long. As Emily had indicated, the trail became a quagmire of churned mud, torn vegetation, and a #soapy froth. It was a hellacious quarter mile.
Despite the “doughboy” slog to the ridge, there was only one incident. We had reached an open conifer forest running at the foot of the ridge when a stegosaurus burst from behind a grove of trees where it had hidden.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a carnivore. The only damage I sustained was a near heart attack when the immense beast lumbered past. It was almost comical, with its plates rattling, the thud of feet, and its tail striking against trees. There was a #chipped plate midway down its back. It was only funny because I was far enough away for the tail to pose no threat.
A minute later, Emily landed and apologized for not spotting it.
As the gentle #fluid#folds of the conifer forested hills ended, the ridge rose steeply in front of us. Although climbing it would be difficult, the incline was a good thing. I doubted the big dinosaurs could climb it. Still, I needed to watch out for smaller ones. Airborne reptiles didn't seem like a problem. The only ones we had seen were small pterodactyls. The largest had a wingspan of about one meter and was no more threatening than a fish eagle.
I zigzagged up the grueling slope, stopping frequently to catch my breath and to ask Emily, "How #far?" until she snapped, "How old are you? Three?"
Our footsteps rang hollow in the tunnel, which curved slightly to the right. After a hundred meters, the passageway branched into three tunnels: up, down, and straight ahead.
"Which way?" I asked in a low voice to avoid echoes.
“Let’s try forward,” Emily said, her tone matching mine. “It looks safest. The dust is undisturbed. If we learn nothing, we can always come back.”
That made sense. To be even safer, I tried manifesting a marking pen. When that failed, I attempted to manifest a piece of chalk. I’d pictured a nice, colorful piece of sidewalk chalk, but I received a rough, chalky stone. It would serve my purpose, though, so I made a #surreptitious mark to show which way we’d come.
On either side of the corridor, large empty rooms opened up. A thick layer of grime gave evidence that no one had used them in a long time.
We’d just started considering turning back when the passageway opened into a large tunnel heading down. It too had been long neglected. Faded murals depicting a history were painted on the walls, drawing us onward. Above ran inscrutable astrological symbols, along with inscriptions in forgotten languages.
We'd emerged at a midpoint depicting a toadish creature leaping, as if traveling forward in time. We could either head back the direction we’d come and learn about these creatures’ prior history or go down to learn about more recent events.
I pointed toward the future, and Emily nodded in agreement.
Initially, the scenes resembled those we’d seen in the pterodactyl caves, depicting a war between the toads and tentacle-headed monsters. From these scenes, we gathered that the conflict had gone on for centuries, if not millennia, with the toads as the eventual victors.
Mixed in with these images were blobish creatures that gradually became more rabbitlike. Initially, they seemed little more than domesticated beasts, then slaves, and finally soldiers. Next, the rabbits appeared, revolting against both of the eldritch races and eventually achieving freedom.
Someone had defaced the next portion of the mural, obliterating the drawing.
When the images resumed, the first one depicted a rabbit morphing into a man with wings on his feet.