“Just try wearing a dress,” Sera said back at him, but not as loud. “Look!” she called. “He’s circling around. We need to cut the big guys off so he can get away. This way!” She veered off toward the church/post office/whatever it was, and Dak doubled back and followed her. “You take the far one, I’ll hit the close one, and with any luck —”
Dak waved his arm to shush her as Riq ran past. “Sanctuary!” Dak yelled to Riq when he went by, and then he crossed in front of one guard, tripping him, and tackled another. Sera jumped onto the back of a third, whipped her shawl off her shoulders, and pulled it tight around the guard’s neck. The other two guards hesitated, waiting for instructions from their fallen leader, which gave Riq just enough time to snake around an outbuilding and into the woods.
The guard Dak had tackled shoved Dak off of himself and started running again, while Sera’s guard fell to his knees, gasping for air and slapping at Sera’s legs. As soon as she could safely hop off, she did, leaving a nasty ropelike burn around the guard’s neck as she pulled her shawl free. She gave him a final kick with her boot between his shoulder blades, grabbed Dak’s hand to pull him to his feet, and then they headed in the opposite direction, so filled with fear and adrenaline that they didn’t look back until they had made it all the way to the wooded lot behind the church. They stopped to catch their breaths, realizing that exactly nobody had followed them.
They high-fived behind a gorgeous sassafras tree, and then the accolades, complete with various accents, began.
“We’re the Two Musketeers!”
“No, we’re Inigo Montoya!”
“No, we’re the Incredible-ests!”
“No, we’re the Count!”
“Wait, what?”
“The Count!”
“The Count of what?”
“You know, that one guy. Who was really tough and vengeful and stuff.”
“Oh. Um, no, I guess I don’t know.”
“They named a sandwich after him or something.”
“You mean the Earl of Sandwich?”
“No, I’m quite sure it was a count. . . .”
“Well, in any case. We rock.”
“We roll!”
They both looked around.
“But we still don’t have Riq.”
“Riq rolls!”
“Right.”
There was a brief pause to account for waning enthusiasm.
Sera sighed. “I hope he knew what you meant when you yelled ‘sanctuary.’”
“I meant ‘church.’ Who wouldn’t know that?”
“Hopefully the guards wouldn’t, because I’m sure they heard, too,” Sera said.
“Oh. Well, yes. But they can’t get us if we’re in the church, though, can they? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“Only if it’s really a church and not a post office. And only if we’re in the movies.”
“That? Is next on the agenda to figure out.”
“You need to figure out if we’re in the movies? If so, we’re in a sorry state indeed.”
“No, the post-office-in-the-church part.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Shall we, then?”
“We shall.”
Sera slipped her hand in the crook of Dak’s elbow, which made him stand all stiff and weird, because he’d done that once before when he was the ring bearer at his aunt Tricia’s wedding and he had to escort some little crying girl down the aisle and throw the stupid flower petals for her because some strange wart-faced old woman hissed at him to do it at the last second. Dak shook his head in disgust, remembering. Parents really had no idea what psychological issues they caused, making their kids do such horrible things.
Anyway, Dak pulled his arm away, Sera shrugged and picked up her dress instead so it didn’t drag on the squishy, moist peat and wet grass, and they snuck in the back door of the church.
RIQ FELT like he could run forever. It was a kamikaze mission, after all — what did he have to lose besides his own existence? His heart lifted as he zigzagged around the bumbling guards, loping along at a very comfortable pace for a guy who’d played halfback in soccer for the past seven years — not that his parents had ever taken the time to see him play. And while his broken nose throbbed, his focus was on leading the men farther and farther away from the river so he could lose them for good.
If only he could get word to the church, to Dak and Sera, that he wouldn’t be making it there to meet them. Perhaps there was a way to do so — he wasn’t sure. But he also remembered the clue, and he hoped that they would do what they’d all promised one another they’d do: complete the mission. Complete the mission. Complete the mission. It was more important than anything else in the universe. It was so important that it was absolutely, well, cataclysmic.
While he’d stood on that podium, Riq had deduced that the five burly men were probably SQ agents who didn’t recognize him for what he really was — even though their job with the SQ required them to be on guard for the organization’s enemies. Because they were too busy being blinded by his skin color, they failed to realize that he was a Hystorian. Well, Riq decided, perhaps he would just have to use that to his advantage.
Now, a good three miles into the woods, he led them on the chase in zigzag fashion. When they started to lag and he knew not only that he could get away, but also that they wouldn’t make it to the Choptank River anytime soon, he jumped into a small stream, stopped, and started running through it, back the way he’d come. His footprints in this damp soil would be too easy to track, but the water would fix that. So he jogged all the way downstream to where he could see the town again, from a different side this time. Once he got his bearings, he stepped onto the grass, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and tried to look like he was running errands. He kept his head down and didn’t look anybody with light-colored skin in the eye.
He saw a bustling hotel from the back side and got past it without incident, and then continued on to the Choptank River. There were small ships and oyster boats all along the wharf, up to where the docks met the woods. Riq headed that way, unsure what to do next except hide until dark — this was as much information as Kessiah had been able to give him. But he definitely had to wait for her. He hadn’t figured out all the pieces yet, but between the clues in the SQuare and the evidence of his own Remnants, it seemed Kissy and her family were caught up in the SQ’s plot.
He told himself it all came down to the mission. But this time, it was personal. He absolutely had to see to the family’s — his family’s — safety. No matter what happened along the way — and no matter the consequences.
DAK AND Sera burst through the door of the church and looked around, expecting to see some sort of activity. But there was no one there at all. The afternoon sun streamed in, giving the church not only light but a bit of warmth as well.
“So, where’s the post office?” Dak asked.
Sera looked around. “And where’s Riq?”
“You know,” Dak mused, “isn’t it kind of illegal to have a post office in a church? Thomas Jefferson often spoke against the mingling of church affairs with those of the government, and the post office is a government institution.”
Sera shrugged, not really caring.
“Then again,” Dak continued, “Thomas Jefferson also said all men are created equal, and even put it in the Declaration of Independence. Yet he owned slaves. That doesn’t seem quite right either. There was this one English guy, an abolitionist back then, who said something like ‘there’s nothing more absurd than an important dude signing something saying everybody’s the same with one hand while holding a slave whip in the other hand.’”
Sera squinted at Dak. “English guy had a point.” She looked around the church. It was simple and sparse. “So,” she said, “if this is the post office, where’s the mail?” She began to look in earnest. “Maybe it’s hidden.”
Dak shot her a quizzical look, and then frowned to himself as if he were deep in thought. Then he said, “I wonder .
. .” He didn’t continue speaking. Instead he went up to the front of the church where the minister would stand, behind a wooden pulpit. He knelt down, feeling all around the base of it.
“What are you doing?” Sera called from the back of the church.
“Looking for mail. I think you might be on the right track. I just remembered something — slaves weren’t really allowed to talk to each other or gather together much when they were working. But they could go to church on Sunday, and that’s where —” Dak heard a noise, which echoed in the near-vacant building.
Sera whirled around. “Who’s there?” she said, trying to sound calm. She scrambled to her feet.
A man with a heavy beard rounded the corner into the sanctuary near Sera and stopped. “Oh, good afternoon,” he said. He held a package under his arm, which he deftly slipped inside his suit jacket.
“Hello,” Sera said, noting his swift move. She decided not to speak, knowing that if she didn’t offer any information about herself, that meant the man had to ask for it, which put her in a better position. Perhaps he’d offer information willingly. She tilted her head, as if she expected him to.
“I’m Gamaliel Bailey,” the man said. “Are you two lost? Looking for something, perhaps?”
“Why would you think we’re lost?” Sera demanded.
The man took a step back and held up his hands. “I apologize and meant nothing by the statement. Since this is a black church, it surprised me to see you two here. Has your nanny brought you here?”
Sera’s mouth opened. “No,” she said in an icy voice. “We don’t have a nanny, thank you. And you’re not black either,” she pointed out.
The man pursed his lips. “You must live nearby, then?”
“No,” Sera said.
“Yes,” Dak said at the same time.
The man struggled to hide a smile. “I see.”
“Are you the minister?” Dak asked. He glared at Sera, who glared back at him.
“Good heavens, no,” he said with a laugh. “I’m a physician-turned-newspaper-editor, I suppose. I run a little paper called the National Era in Washington, DC, and —”
“Wait a second — that’s where Harriet Beecher Stowe’s book was first published! It’s an abolitionist paper,” Dak said to Sera.
The man looked confused. “Which book?”
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Dak said, triumphant that he finally got something right about this history. “Starting in 1851.”
Sera’s face froze, her eyes wide.
Dak froze, too.
Gamaliel Bailey’s lips parted and then closed again. His face grew thoughtful, and then a look of wonder passed over it. His eyes began to shine and he sniffed once, putting a loose fist to his mouth as if he were going to cough, but he didn’t cough, he just held it there for a long moment.
“I mean . . .” Dak said in a quiet voice, “it was probably a different paper in eighteen-Sasquach or something.”
A grin spread over Gamaliel’s face at that, and he dropped his fist from his mouth and clasped his fingers together. He stood, gazing at the children, his head shaking the slightest bit from side to side, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Finally, he came to his senses.
“Welcome,” he said. “I never thought I’d see you. Never in a thousand years. And” — his eyes grew misty — “I can’t tell you how much we need you right now.” He pointed to a pew. “Do you have time to sit down and talk? I’m a Hystorian. This isn’t my post — I’m normally in Washington, DC, but there’s been a bit of trouble here lately, so I came down to help.”
Sera frowned. She was skeptical of everyone in this period. She crossed her arms. “How do we know you’re really a Hystorian? Prove it.”
The man didn’t look surprised at all by the question. It was as if he’d been waiting his whole life to answer it. He spoke in low tones. “In 336 BC, the most amazing visionary, Aristotle, foresaw that the world was headed toward a great danger. The true course of history was being broken, and he realized it would continue well after he was gone. But he also predicted that someday, people would be able to travel back in time and fix the Breaks in history. He established a secret group called the Hystorians to watch for the time travelers. I have been one for many years, as were my parents before me.”
Sera narrowed her eyes. “So, you’re friends with Mrs. Beeson,” she said. Not a question.
His eyes hardened. “Yes, Mrs. Beeson is a wonderful woman, and a steadfast abolitionist. She is, however, missing.” He dropped his gaze. “Many brave people along the Freedom Trail from here to Philadelphia are missing. My comrades and friends. That’s why I’ve come to help.” He wiped his face with his hand, holding it over his eyes for a moment. “Everything we’ve worked for all these years is in jeopardy. My paper has been attacked, and I’m being violently forced out of business.” He looked at Dak. “As a matter of fact, Ms. Stowe wrote to me recently to inform me that she was hoping to provide a work of fiction for my paper. But the way things look now, there won’t be anything at all printed in the National Era in 1851, because it won’t exist.”
He pulled the package from his jacket pocket and tossed it to the seat next to him. “Letters,” he said. “Coded letters for the slaves from their free friends and family. Letters from stations on the Underground Railroad, and from conductors who are planning their next runs. We hide them here — it’s the only safe place for the slaves to get communication.” He looked up at Sera and Dak. “These letters and I nearly didn’t make it here today.”
Just then his face paled to ash and he cringed. He grabbed hold of the bench and held his breath, as if in pain.
“Are you all right?” Sera asked. She stood up and gave a helpless look around, unsure what to do.
The man shook his head and held up a hand. When he could speak, he said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve been having some strange episodes lately — like flashes of memories, but memories of things I don’t quite remember. I know it doesn’t make sense. Perhaps in the future, there’s a cure for such things.” He looked up, hopeful, but when he saw the look on Sera’s face, the smile faded dead away.
“I GUESS you could say we’re working on a cure,” Sera said. “They’re called Remnants.” She looked at her hands.
Dak nodded, even though he didn’t fully understand what they were talking about. He hadn’t ever experienced a Remnant, but he knew Sera and Riq both had them, as well as countless other people. And speaking of Riq . . . “Would you excuse us for a moment please, Dr. Bailey?”
“Of course.”
Dak pulled Sera down the aisle to the front of the church. “I just wanted to make sure you think he’s the real deal before I stick my stupid foot in my even stupider mouth again.”
Sera bumped the toe of his boot with the toe of hers. “What, 1851? It turned out fine,” she said. “You big dope.”
He grinned, feeling loads better now. “So, do we believe his story?”
“I think we do. Do we?”
“Yes. And maybe next time we’ll be smart enough not to believe every person who tells us they’re on our side.”
“We can’t be perfect every second of the day,” Sera said. “Okay. Let’s trust him.”
“And then,” Dak said, peering outside through the windows at the late afternoon sunset, “we really need to find Riq and that Gourdon guy.”
“Riq should be here by now,” Sera said. “Maybe he didn’t know the meaning of . . .” She trailed off with an embarrassed smile. “Oh, yeah. Linguist.”
“I thought it was too soon for linguist jokes.”
“Stop it. Let’s go.”
They returned to Gamaliel Bailey, and Dak spoke up. “So, if you’re sure you’re feeling all right, we need to start looking for our friend Riq, who is also a time traveler. He was captured last night by the imposter Mrs. Beeson, and sold as a slave today, which really messed up everything, even though he escaped. I’m sure fake Mrs. Beeson is not as lovely as the real one.”
/> “Oh, dear, that’s terrible,” Gamaliel said, standing up and wringing his hands. “I’m here to help you, though, and I will do everything I can.”
“We also need to wait here for a bit, then find and follow some drinking guy named Gourdon. Any chance you know him?”
“Gourdon? I know of no such man, I fear, but you’ll remember I’m not from here. You’re to follow him, you say?”
“Yes, but we also need to find Riq.” Dak was beginning to get anxious. “I hope he hasn’t been captured again.”
Gamaliel Bailey lifted a finger as if to speak, then held the pose for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. “Forgive me, children — I’m replaying our conversation in my mind — did you say you were to follow a drinking man named Gourdon?”
Sera raised an eyebrow at Dak, then turned back to the man. “Yes,” she said.
“Hmm. Can you tell me your instructions exactly?”
Sera tapped her finger against her thigh as she rattled off, “Seek not lantern or Friends. After tomorrow’s fair, visit post office. Wait, then follow the drinking Gourdon.”
Gamaliel almost smiled, but he still had a puzzled look on his face. “Was it in clue form?”
“Yes, it was set up like a telegram sent from Gourdon.”
The man chuckled, and then his laugh grew louder and louder. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, my. I surely needed that today. Gourdon, indeed.”
Sera and Dak looked at each other as if poor Gamaliel had lost his marbles.
“Children, it’s not a man you seek. It’s a constellation. I’m sure signing the telegram with the word gourd would have been too obvious, so I imagine your guide was being clever. Can you guess which constellation looks a bit like a drinking gourd?”
Dak knew astronomy was Sera’s weakest science. And he didn’t have a clue what a drinking gourd looked like, so he was no help.
When neither answered, Gamaliel said, “A drinking gourd is the hollowed-out bottom half of a gourd, which is sometimes used as a cup. Attached to the gourd is a stick, several inches long, so that if you leave the gourd in a pail of drinking water, the handle sticks out above the surface so you can grab hold, or use it as a dipper.” He emphasized the last word.