Time Drifters

From the look of surprise and concern on the Monsignor’s face, it was clear that he felt he’d made a mistake. He had asked us in public—in front of Sister Regis and Mr. Flett and Our Margaret the Bread Lady—if we wished to return to the “asylum” with Capucine and Sister Vellena, or to go further with him and Aureliano to confirm arrangements with the Contessa. And in practical unison, we opted for the latter.

Capucine seemed crestfallen but Marijka and Renatta gave her a hug and whispered something in her ear. I sensed that Sister Vellena was almost pleased, although her face barely shifted.

As Capucine and Sister Vellena accepted the offered ride with Margaret as she continued on her rounds, I realized that going farther into town would double the amount of walking that we’d have to do on the way back. That was bad.

There was the upside that we wouldn’t be subjected to questions from the Sister, since we now knew that she had special knowledge. We’d be able to find time to compare notes and get a unified story together; at the very least some ground rules. Plus, I’d noticed that orphans asylums were noisy places with lots of chores to be done. Francesca confirmed that fact.

From her bottle-carrying expedition with doubting Thomas Slowinska, she had learned that the Poydras Street asylum was one of many orphanages in the fourth district. And with the exception of the ones for very little babies, each of them took on work to help with the upkeep; chores such as doing laundry for local hotels. And you can guess who did the real work. Not my idea of having fun, either. There were at least six places that she remembered, mostly named St. Mary’s or St. Joseph’s with a couple of newer Protestant asylums that had just started up. They always seemed to separate the boys and the girls, and I wondered how we would fare with someone trying to split up our group if we were staying for any length of time.

She had also learned that the asylums relied on the patronage of wealthy merchants and that the Monsignor was trying to expand from his isolation in the countryside of Carrolltown. The Contessa D’Estange had influence with an elderly friend, a widower who had been dying slowly over the past year. He promised to leave his mansion to a suitable recipient to be converted into an asylum, and we knew who wanted to be first in line for that property.

Aureliano had been told simply that the Contessa was staging an event the following evening. I instantly put together that we’d most likely be staying until then and my heart sank. I wanted Christmas to come and even though I knew it would be waiting for me when I got back, I had a fear that we might not be able to shift whatever had gone off.

The Monsignor was occupied with buttering up Mr. Flett and it had given us time to exchange information along the way. The streets became busier as the morning continued and as we turned from one street to the next on our way to the French Quarter.

I’d been to theme parks with my parents and enjoyed the brief illusion of being back in another place and time. But it had always been short-lived when you looked down an alleyway and had seen a modern trashcan next to a Coke machine, or come to the end of the road and found a parking lot. I was amazed by the complexity of this old town, and how it just continued to unfurl around us. I kept expecting to see cars, or a costume character of Mickey Mouse, or a break in the perfectly aged facades of the buildings, or any man, woman or child who spoke in a way that I recognized from TV shows.

The more I challenged the present to show me the future, the more I realized how very much I was surrounded by the past. Immersed in it, and even captive.

My heart started beating faster and my breath got shorter. I thought I saw a woman shaking a rug outside of a window, but when I looked to the third floor, it was locked up tightly. Then I thought I saw a child playing on the street as a carriage roared past; but there was only one horse and no child anywhere around. A man smoking a pipe at the entrance to an alley, while two others were brutally clubbing a man on the ground behind them. But when I looked twice, they were all gone. Nothing but a rat, sniffing at a pile of rotting cabbage.

I stopped in my tracks. I was shaking. I listened.

Someone was playing a trombone. A woman was yelling at a man and he was yelling back. Something broke. These were real sounds. But there was more.

“What’s up, Trinder?” Thomas asked, concerned. Marijka was at his side. “You gotta keep up.”

“It’s things,” I said, looking around. “People that aren’t here. But they are here.”

“Before you go all Cybil on us, do you think you could start walking and maybe we could figure it out as we go?” Thomas asked, looking around at the townspeople nearby.

I had been walking for about a block before I realized that he had his hand on my back. He wasn’t pushing, he was just… there. In Honolulu he had been shorter and kind of spastic. Dealing with his first Drift. In Tarrytown, he had been out for blood. And here he was, being nice, almost as though we were friends. Maybe things could change. Maybe people changed in ways that really mattered.

“What’s going on, guys?” Barkley asked, dropping back from the others to walk along with us. He knelt forward to let Marijka jump on for a piggyback ride. She wasn’t much shorter than him, but she didn’t need any encouragement.

“Trinder’s perceiving things,” Thomas said, carefully.

“Neat!” said Barkley. “What’re ya gettin’?”

“A feeling like someone or something doesn’t want us to be here,” I said, a bit alarmed that Barkley thought this was cool.

“Really?” he asked, turning to me, happily. “Is it sort of evil?”

Marijka frowned and pounded on his shoulder. “No!” she said, cowering. “Not evil. We don’t want that.”

“It’s not evil, Marijka,” Thomas said coolly. “It’s just unexplained. People say ‘evil,’ especially when they don’t understand. Trinder has a different radio sensor than most of us. He’s a feeling kind of guy,” he added. This time I knew he was mocking me.

“Get off it,” I said annoyed. Thomas smiled and chuckled, but again I didn’t feel that he had any intention of wounding me.

“Oh, heck,” Barkley said, excited, “Rufus and me, we got our own tuning going on, too. With each other.”

“Of course, you’re identical twins,” Marijka said, examining the tip of Barkley’s ear and how flexible it might be.

“No, here too,” he continued, oblivious to the inspection. “We’ve been to New Orleans, my friends, when we were just eight years old. Even then, this place looked old like it does now. And even then we felt something mighty queer. So it’s probably some of that Ju-Ju that you’re tuning in to, Liam, just like us.”

“Trinder’s not great at tuning it out,” Thomas said. I frowned at him and he shrugged. “Yet,” he qualified, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you could work at turning down the volume, instead?”

That made sense. I figured that listening to them talking helped to keep my mind off it. The feelings were still there and I started to sense them pushing through just as we turned into a large square. It was a flurry of activity and I didn’t need Barkley to tell me that we had made it to the heart of town.

The Contessa lived in a townhouse kind of apartment that was part of the tall stone buildings facing the main Cathedral. Since she had not been expecting us, her manservant told Mr. Flett that we would have to wait while she prepared to receive company.

Aureliano was looking very serious and staring at a carving in the base of a stone column in front of the home, his eyes glazing over.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

“To sing? No,” he said, instantly coming to life again, turning me away from the watchful eyes of the doorman and the nervous Monsignor. “To remember which operas to choose from in 1857… that is the tricky part. Mozart and Handel? Bellini? No problem. Wagner and Puccini? Awkward. So, I stick with Verdi, if the Contessa approves. La Traviata, that’s new.”

“So you’ve got it down, then,” I said, counting on Aureliano to know his musical palette and the proper history.

“But once a song is in your soul,” Aureliano said, “it’s very hard to hide away that part of you that yearns to be expressed.”

“Like Capucine,” I said, thinking of my exchange with her this morning. Her dilemma had been preoccupying all of us. “She doesn’t want to give up Drifting.”

A sudden, shrill steam whistle pierced the air and reverberated around the cavern of buildings surrounding us. Aureliano winced and covered his ears, cowering towards the building. But my eyes turned to see the chugs of two plumes of smoke, one white and one flannel and grey with black flecks in it, billowing up above the trees that lined the levy.

“Steamboats!” I exclaimed. “Cool!”

“No!” Aureliano said, reaching out with one arm to hold me back.

“What?” I asked.

Barkley had already passed me with Calico hot on his heels but Renatta sternly called out for them to return.

Aureliano paused, looking towards the boat and swallowing.

“What is it?” I repeated.

“Just be here, for now,” he said, releasing his grip. “Now is what is important.”

#

We were deposited into the mansion’s foyer, elegant as it was, while the Monsignor and Aureliano were guided upstairs to have audience with the Contessa. Calico spoke up and asked if she might have an envelope and something to write with, and was obliged with both at a writing desk up in the main room that spanned the first floor. Given our soggy shoes and damp clothing, I was surprised that we were soon permitted to join her and sit, although we were definitely being scrutinized at all times.

Renatta completed the address and just as soon as she had, the offer was made to place it into the post for her.

That being done, we found ourselves at a loss for anything to say or do. Marijka was clearly enchanted by an etched glass lantern that sat on the small, circular marble table beside the settee where she and Calico perched. I could see the colored designs from where I was and I knew she was bobbing her head around to catch the light coming through them from the beveled windowpanes. Her movement was obviously disturbing to the doorman and he soon moved so close to the table that her makeshift kaleidoscope was ruined.

Happily, we were not forgotten entirely when it came to food. The first servant to appear with hors d’oeuvres jerked backward momentarily, looking like a rabbit that had hopped into a circle of wolves. We had all instantly sat bolt upright, licking our lips. Renatta and Gwendolyn were polite and demonstrated the manners we should carry off. Caelen restrained himself, with obvious difficulty. Calico said her thanks but then took four pieces and began to eat before the tray was even removed. From then on, all bets were off. There were raised eyebrows, to be sure. But the trays just kept on coming and no one, not even Renatta was going to say, “Enough.”

The Contessa appeared, finally, descending only halfway down the staircase, extending her greetings to all of us as we stood in unison. She looked very Spanish, to my eye, wearing a billowing black dress with red frills. A gracious woman, with soft eyes and graying hair. The Monsignor was wearing a smug expression and Aureliano nodded, so I knew it had gone well.

“And Isaac?” the Contessa asked, a tinge of worry and pity ruffling on her face. “He is well?”

“Oh, yes, dear Contessa,” Monsignor assured. “Most well, and most happy, I may say.”

This pleased the woman as much as it seemed to relieve her.

“He will join us, with Capucine, of course? Tomorrow evening?” she asked.

The Monsignor seemed momentarily distracted. “As you wish, dear Contessa,” he said. “Of course, it is only his… suitable attire for which I fear I may be remiss in maintaining.” He bowed in penitence.

“No apologies and no shame are warranted, Monsignor,” said the Contessa, beckoning her hand lady with a mere curve of her hand. “Tomorrow morning, there will be a carriage for Capucine and Isaac along with Senor Baldomero, to see that they are comfortably dressed.”

Aureliano descended farther down the steps and gave a fancy bow in tribute to his temporary benefactor.

The Contessa ordered carriages for all of us to return to Carrolltown. Our audible relief likely helped to steel her resolve, fending off the Monsignor’s attempts to deny her “most gracious and lavish generosity.” I wanted to tell the jerk to “Shut Up,” and I thought the loose soles of my shoes might begin talking for me, but it all worked out. Adults had their own kinds of games and frequently I didn’t see the fun, or sense, in most of them.

By contrast, when the Contessa D’Estang played, the stakes were higher and more tangible. When she spoke, actions happened. The first of our three covered carriages was already lining up at the curb as we descended the steps of her house. The Monsignor helped himself to the first and nicest of the vehicles and selected Gwendolyn and Aureliano to join him. The rest of us divided up evenly and I was soon riding backwards with Marijka beside me as we both watched our chance at visiting a sternwheeler disappear around the corner.

Renatta and Francesca began to discuss the situation and continue to compare notes as we shuffled and jerked along. My stomach started to tighten as the conversation heated.

“We must make Capucine show us the Post,” insisted Renatta.

“But you’re not supposed to see it either,” Marijka objected.

“Nor is Capucine,” Renatta said, “but from what Liam says, the Sister is being very free with it, and putting us all in danger because of it.”

“She only said Sister Vellena was teaching her about it,” I clarified. “And about the ‘Order.’ Is there an Order of postmaster people?”

Renatta and Francesca looked at each other and Francesca shook her head.

“Or maybe you don’t want to talk about it with us here, because Marijka and I are both first year,” I said, sighing in frustration and looking out the window.

“We don’t know that she isn’t just as trustworthy as any of our own Post masters and mistresses,” said Francesca.

“You have a lady Post master?” Marijka asked Francesca.

“Do you see the problems this woman is causing us?” Renatta asked.

“I do,” I said. “And all because we can’t talk amongst ourselves, even. ‘Cause of some stupid rules.”

“They’re not stupid, Liam,” Francesca responded. “There’s reasons for them… for us and for the Timestream.”

“What we know for certain is, for whatever reason, Capucine needs to leave the Monsignor and, apparently, Sister Vellena,” Renatta said calmly. “And she does not want to go because of an obvious attachment to security and some nebulous connection with the Post. That is what we need to find out about. And barring a full confession from Sister Vellena…”

“Which I highly doubt we’ll receive without a return of the Spanish Inquisition,” interjected Francesca.

“True,” Renatta responded. “Funny and true. So that is why I say we must examine the Post ourselves and see if there are any clues. And I think the only one of us who can do that, is me.”

“But…” Marijka tried to speak.

“Because I am not only the eldest, but also the closest to this time period,” Renatta explained. “I’m far less likely to care about any events that are listed into the future. And I will swear to not reveal any details that I find that could effect you.”

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Francesca countered, shimmying sideways into the corner in an effort to face off with Renatta.

“It would be more sensible for Liam to be the one to look,” Francesca said. I was taken aback at that idea as much as Renatta. “He is the most Future one amongst us. It’s less likely that he will be shocked by anything he sees that lies behind him, and he cannot easily change anything after he is aged out of his Drift cycle. You, on the other hand…”

“Me?” retorted Renatta. “Pardon me, but am I any different from you? I think not. Yes, I infer from your reactions that Northern people don’t like Southern people, and that German people are not universally regarded in your time period. And I have felt that from others, too. But I ignore that in honor of my commitment to being a Drifter. I accept that we lost the war in Carolina and yet we move along.”

Francesca dropped her head into her hand and Marijka looked at me sadly.

“My Daddy says, ‘If you can’t decide, then you haven’t got enough information,’” Marijka said. “I think that we can’t decide how to help Capucine. And I think Liam is the one to ask her for more information.”

Renatta’s lips were pursed so tightly, they were white at the edges. But eventually she shrugged and then stared out the window. And that’s how it was decided.

The carriage stopped and we disembarked. Caelen came to play footman since the Contessa’s men were not around and it appeared, from the dismal shape of the Monsignor’s asylum, that the only servants he had… were us.