Timeshares Part 5

He tore up the confidentiality agreement. "Suppose you forgo the Ripper in exchange for unlimited access to a host of equally famous mysteries: D. B. Cooper, the Lindbergh kidnapping, the Black Dahlia, the Princes in the Tower . . ."

"Lizzie Borden?"

"Of course. That's a perfect example." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "As a matter of fact, we've been thinking of licensing a line of publis.h.i.+ng spin-offs under the Timeshares umbrella. You seem like exactly the kind of ambitious, enterprising author we've been looking for, one who can take full advantage of everything we can offer. Think about it. You would have all of history at your disposal. The possibilities are endless."

"Except Jack the Ripper."

He nodded. "That particular mystery is probably best left unsolved. Do we understand each other?"

Celeste's mind boggled at the prospect. Jacobsen was offering her not just a single bestseller, but a franchise. franchise. Countless millennia of unsolved histories, from the extinction of the dinosaurs to the heat death of the universe. Countless millennia of unsolved histories, from the extinction of the dinosaurs to the heat death of the universe.

"Mr. Jacobsen," she replied, "I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful partners.h.i.+p."

Limited Time Offer Dean Leggett

Dean Alan Leggett has enjoyed the topic and mystery of time travel since junior high school. While serving in the United States Air Force the debates of time travel paradoxes would last longer than games of t.i.tan. He has since returned to his home state of Wisconsin where he lives with his wonderful wife, Annette. When Dean isn't working in the IT world of virtualization "time shares" he writes about different types of Timeshares.

Peeking through the tiny mailbox window I see an envelope. My heart jumps. Maybe Penny is finally returning my letters. My keychain bangs on the metal and gla.s.s wall as old Mrs. Mildred scowls at me from down the hall. My shoulders slump as I see it is just another piece of junk mail. On the back side it reads: "Adventure isn't going to wait for you-act now!" It is hard to believe folks actually fall for this c.r.a.p.

I stick the fairly thick envelope in my mouth and search through the long string of keys. I swear the key for the deadbolt and the key for the handle are on opposite sides again. How does that keep happening? I never remember moving them around. The rusted hinges give a high-pitched squeak. I slip inside, shutting the door quickly before Mrs. McNosey asks if I have found a new job yet.

I toss the keys on the counter, along with the sole piece of mail, and pull open the fridge. The single light bulb hums at me angrily as I search for anything not yet expired. d.a.m.n it! I know I just went to the grocery store Wednesday. How can everything be spoiled already? You would think that by putting the bread in the fridge it would keep longer, but no. Harry's Bakery lives up to its name again. I grab a beer and slam the door.

I crack the edge of the bottle on the counter, sending the cap flying across the room. I grab the sales pitch and head the three steps into the living room and try to relax. The TV stand proudly displays a dust outline. Sipping on my nectar of sanity, I tear open the envelope and read the form letter.

"Mr. Lynch, how would you like to get away from your current life and experience the wonders Timeshares can offer?"

I pause as foam almost shoots out my nose.

"Wouldn't you like to travel back to the lands of your ancestors and meet long-lost relatives? We have a custom travel package ready for you. Stop in for a free consultation and leave your worries at home."

I tipped back to get the last drops.

The letter went on with the sales pitch, but what caught my eye was the last paragraph.

"Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for your convenience, Mr. Lynch. Don't worry about payment arrangements; we have a plan that will work even for you."

I would like to see what type of payment plan they have for me and my overdrawn bank account. I do need to pick up more bread and maybe some cheap beer. I wonder if bottle caps are the type of payment plan they have in mind. I decide to take the bottle cap along-for good luck if nothing else. I wouldn't want the roaches to carry it off.

The Timeshares office is on a small side street just down the block, fittingly enough next to a small all-night diner. The office appears dark, but there is a small light glowing from the back. A flip sign hanging from the inside window reads: OPEN. The diner calls to me louder.

My stomach is rumbling, and the fresh smell of bacon only amplifies my hunger. Surprisingly, there are quite a few folks even at this time of night. It is well past 11 P.M. as I pull open the door and head inside.

The bells announce me. Of the fifteen or so customers, only one seems to take notice. An older man in the back; he smiles and raises a cup. The waitress scowls at him and refills his cup before he brings it back down to the counter. The aroma of the freshly brewed coffee hits me. I take the closest stool I find.

The waitress pours me a cup of coffee and hands me a menu. The scent of frying bacon and an endless selection of breakfast, lunch, and dinner options enthralls me. I don't notice the bells or the tall, dark-haired woman dressed in what appeared to be a Renaissance fair costume until she swings her skirt over on the stool next to me. Her laced corset and ample build makes for quite a sight. Trying to look politely elsewhere, I glance around the diner. I notice not many really seem to pay any attention to her. It is then I notice many of the patrons are dressed very strangely. Older styles of s.h.i.+rts and odd cuts of suit coats are all around.

I decide on a short stack and a side of bacon. I don't know why the waitress bothers to write it down, as she shouts my order as soon as she takes the menu from my fingers. My hands fidget with the salt shaker and I try not to glance too often at the flouncy woman to my right. As if noticing my discomfort, she speaks to me, but I don't catch all of it.

Judging by the look on my face, she repeats herself. "How are you today?"

I do my best to fix my eyes on hers.

"Fine. How are you?" I smile and do my best to act calm. It looks like she could fall out of her dress if she turned wrong.

She gives a heavy sigh and doesn't answer.

Thankfully, my order arrives.

I focus on my meal as if it were my last. If I don't find work soon, it just might be. The bacon is the best I have ever tasted and the cakes sure hit the spot. I pull a ten out of my now empty wallet and give a shout of thanks to the cook. I stumble toward the door.

I intend to head home, but think, what the h.e.l.l, I might as well give this travel shop a look. If they go to the trouble of being open all night, it couldn't hurt to stop in. If nothing else, it might give me a clue to the a.s.sortment of oddly dressed people in the diner. I pull on the door, half expecting it to be locked. It opens easily.

Not wis.h.i.+ng to startle anyone, I call, "h.e.l.lo? Are you still open?"

"Mr. Lynch!" A voice rings out from the back, causing me to jump. "Come in, come in, we were expecting you." A short stocky man in his early sixties comes forward. A few more lights flicker and then pop on. "Have a seat over here while we get your file together." He gestures to a chair in front of an old wooden desk, gathers some papers and a few folders, and sets them on the desk in front of him. "Well, Mr. Lynch it shows here you wish to journey into the past to take some photographs for us."

"I don't think so. I received your flyer offering travel on a budget I could afford. But I can't afford anything."

I stare at him, trying to puzzle out how he knows my name. This whole thing isn't making much sense. I try to get a look at some of the papers hanging out of the folders-no success.

"I used to take photographs for a college newspaper," I tell him. "But that was years ago."

"Oh, so sorry, Lisa hasn't finish sorting your file yet." He flips through some more papers before glancing up. "Here it is. We would like to offer you a free trip near the Sea of Meezee. All we ask in return is for you to take some photos for us. You will be in disguise. We need photos both inside the Chefuncte village and especially inside a certain hut." He pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. "Oh, and you will need to sign this disclaimer."

The form has more than a hundred lines of text in a tiny font. I look it over quickly, noting my name. It has tomorrow's date already filled in. "Why would I sign this and where is this Meezee place?"

"Sorry Mr. Lynch, it isn't a where where, but more of a when when. Apparel, footwear, and supplies will be provided." As he speaks, he looks to be checking off some boxes from a form attached to a clipboard. "You already ate; good, good . . . Everything seems to be set, just sign and we will get you ready for your journey. Sorry to give you no warning for this, but our regular photographer . . . is no longer available. We needed him replaced right now."

I think about just getting up and leaving, but the notion of returning to my empty apartment is just too much. It is time to take a chance. I pick up the pen and sign my name. Glancing at the clock, it reads 12:17. The little man grabs the signed sheet, tucks it into the folder, and waddles back down the hall. He turns back briefly, "Come on Kyle, time to get you on your way."

I spend the next few hours being measured and fitted into various animal pelts. They have a strong but not unpleasant smell. At first, I resist asking, "Why me?" among countless other minor questions. In the end I just stand there. My thoughts of leaving vanish when the dark-haired woman from the diner enters the room. She is out of her corset and wearing a set of animal skins. The skins are mismatched, ranging from fur to bare leather, and st.i.tched with a thick coa.r.s.e thread. Her multipiece outfit moves with her as she stuffs smaller pieces of hide into a large pack. The native look fits her perfectly; I on the other hand imagine I appear very silly.

She looks at me a few times and smiles.

"I bet this is funny to you," I say. "Why didn't you warn me about this in the diner?"

She walks toward me. "Be happy you didn't get the letter last week. You could have joined me in ole England, and somehow you don't seem like the tights and ruffles type."

Her smile is disarming.

She speaks in a language I don't recognize to the old man. He glances up at me as he responds. "His job is to take photos. Yours, Becca, is to keep him out of trouble and teach him to fit in. You know the drill. I think he will fit in nicely with these folk."

She waits until she has my full attention. "Mr. Lynch, you will be known as Pen.o.bscot. Repeat it a few times to yourself so you can get the feel for it. Whenever you hear that name, you will respond. It doesn't matter what you say, they will not understand your language. I will translate for you." Stuffing the last of the leathers into the pack, she flips the thick flap over and ties it shut. "Well, he isn't as scrawny as he looked before, what with his new clothes. His scraggy red-brown hair will mark him as a Northern, I think."

The old man finishes st.i.tching the leather of my left shoe. "There you go, Mr. Lynch. You are almost ready. I will get your camera, it should be finished charging." With that he turns and heads out of the room. I wondered why all the work on the disguise only to walk in with an anachronistic camera hanging around my neck.

Becca inspects my costume. Still standing on the tailor platform, at least I have a height advantage. "So Becca, you will be my guide, huh? Can I call you Becca? Or do you have a strange name I should use for our cover?" I smile as my heart begins to race. I feel like a spy in a sci-fi movie. Time travel, strange lands, and animal skin clothing from The Land of the Lost The Land of the Lost make for a major change of direction. make for a major change of direction.

Becca takes a step closer and leans into me. The bead work in her hair rattles. "Pen.o.bscot, you are about to earn your 'free trip.' You are traveling to a land where cats don't rub against your leg, they gnaw it off. There are bears that stand over fifteen feet tall, and I have seen one crush the skull of a hardened warrior in its jaws. I have seen insects draw the life blood out of rabbits in less than a minute. Travel to the past may not be the picnic you may envision. We are heading to a place where humans were tested and only the worthy survived. The people you will meet during the next few weeks fight daily to feed and protect their families." With that, she turns and heads down the hall.

OK, what am I getting myself into? A free trip to the past to take photos is one thing, but meeting cats that eat legs is something completely different. I look around for my jeans-I'm outta here!

"Mr. Lynch!" The short man sneaks up behind me while reaching for my boots. He holds a seven- foot high wooden staff, about two inches in diameter, polished smooth with feathers and crystals hanging from thick strings near the top. "Mr. Lynch, pull yourself together! You wanted to get away from your sad, miserable life and go on an adventure. Well, here's your chance. You can follow me, or you can return home and hope you can find another job before they kick you out on the street. Look inside yourself, Mr. Lynch. We are not meant to just trudge through life or sit on our collective a.s.ses watching reruns of reality shows. This is your chance. Take it!"

He thrusts the staff at me, causing the crystals to rattle. Knowing the little man is right, I grab the staff proudly. "Count me in! Let's get going, Becca!"

With a wide smile, he explains the various features of the hidden camera staff. "Near the top of the staff there is a clear crystal rod helping to align the camera. You just line up the shot and press on a knot sticking out the side. This is our best technology camera; it can take photographs in near total darkness. With no drain due to flash, the initial charge and internal memory will last for just over four hundred pictures. Anyone can operate it, but only a real photographer like yourself would know how to get the best shots."

They want me to take photos of the day-to-day life and also something rumored to be out of the ordinary. Yeah right! I'm just walking around an ancient world in animal skins carrying a mystic's staff that can take pictures. Seems like everything will be out of the ordinary.

They place my former belongings in a locker and pat me down to make sure I'm not bringing anything else along for the ride. Then he brings over a large jar. He twists the lid off and the pungent smell sets me back. He dips his hands in and rubs them together. Now he starts to rub the stench into my hair. I glance over as Becca unsuccessfully stifles a laugh.

"Hey, why do I get smelly dung wiped in my hair and she gets to keep hers combed with colorful beads decorating it?"

He continues until my hair is fully coated in the goo. "You see, Peno, you are a magician type character from the north. You need to get close to nature to achieve your visions. Beccatelravole is your guide as you travel into the southern lands. She will interpret your visions and provide cover for you. You will not exactly fit in; but that is part of the ruse. Your mannerisms, posture, and voice will be vastly different. She is the one who will bridge the gap. While you shake your staff and look through the crystal, she will explain it to the clans that it is part of your mystical ways. It will help disarm any hostility they may have toward you. The smell in your hair will keep the locals from wanting to get too close."

I shrug. I guess it makes sense. Distracted, Becca approaches and jams a long needle through my leathers.

"Hey! How does this all translate as a vacation for me?"

This brings a stern look and a wag of a finger from the little man. "See here, Mr. Lynch, we didn't promise you a cruise to the Bahamas. We offered you a chance to 'travel back to the lands of your ancestors and meet your long- lost relatives,' and that, Pen.o.bscot, is exactly what you are going to do!"

I keep a close eye on Becca as she sets down the needle.

We are taken to a room with multiple large gla.s.s capsules. We are secured inside and the covers are lowered. The lights are turned off, and the next thing I know we are in a forest clearing looking up at the stars. It is breathtaking just to see how bright the stars are. The air feels thicker, and the sounds of the night are all around.

"So Becca-tella-ra-volie, I wouldn't have believed any of this yesterday. This is amazing!"

She stands up and secures the pack to her back. "Don't try to p.r.o.nounce my full name on this trip; we will not be here long enough. Stick to just Becca. Oh, and stay close. We will arrive at the village around sunrise. Try not to gawk too much. Just relax and go with the flow."

She offers me a hand up.

My legs are a bit uneasy and my stomach is starting to churn.

We weave through thick brush before finding a straight, clear path. The stars give enough light so that I can see the path extends almost perfectly straight to both horizons.

"Becca, we really are in the past, aren't we?" I point down the road.

She steps closer. "Yes. Just because modern man paints the past as stone wielding cavemen doesn't mean that is truly how it is. You may not see any cell phones, but that doesn't mean that ancient man wasn't as innovative and exacting. The pyramids were built thousands of years ago, but no one in modern times with modern equipment has ever tried to duplicate them. There are countless wonders all over the past. Most just couldn't survive for thousands of years to be proven true. This is where your pictures will come in handy."

Becca leads us down the path. I start to think of the smell in my hair and those bears she spoke of. I jump at every noise and just about lose it when a small deer darts out about ten feet from us. Becca plods forward.

After a few hours the trees give way to a wooden wall. Tree trunks stripped of bark and buried into the ground reach almost twenty feet into the air. Every few feet thick ropes are woven in opposite directions, holding them together. When the wooden wall reaches the edge of the road I can make out a small break. The opening is about ten feet across, and a series of smaller logs are crossed and bound with rope. Between the crossed logs, long spears point outward. I look close and note that the spear heads are multifaceted stone bladed tips covered in a yellow green paste.

Several natives are also blocking the way. Seeing us, they turn and call over their shoulders in a language I don't comprehend. A bulky woman strides forward and chatters with Becca, occasionally pointing toward me. I hear my new name repeated a few times in the discussion.

After a moment, everyone relaxes and motions us inside.

Becca leans in. "She wanted to know if you were the magic man I was asked to bring."

We attract a small crowd as the sky turns from pink to a brighter yellow. Light pours in as we walk inside the walled area. I expect a small village, but I'm surprised by this place-it's about the size of a large sports stadium. The oval-shaped tree wall encircles a series of about forty thatched buildings. Becca and I are taken to the large building in the center. Smoke rises slowly from two of the thatch peaks. It is a mystical sight, watching the morning breeze guide the smoke toward the rising sun.

I decide it's time to use my staff, and that I should have gotten a few pictures of the long path. At first I make up nonsensical words as I shake the staff. The crystals rattles and heads turn. I realize I don't have to make up gibberish, English would sound just as confusing.

This is almost fun, and the children seem to enjoy my act. I wonder if Timeshares will let me to keep some of the pictures.

Becca stops me just short of entering the large building.

"This is our real mission. Inside is said to be a dying giant. These people think it is one of the old G.o.ds, but we think it's just a species overlooked by time. You know, lost to the ages. I told them you are a follower of this G.o.d and need to help him pa.s.s on."

"When and where are we exactly, Becca? I know I should have asked this right away, but I was just too caught up in everything. This giant giant isn't one of those short-faced bears you told me about, is it?" isn't one of those short-faced bears you told me about, is it?"

Becca kneels and hands out skins and beads to the local children as she responds. "The giant they speak of is a humanoid creature. They will not let any outsider near it. At this time most of the people in this village know the people from our office well-we've been coming here for a while. That's why we needed someone new, and a photographer at that. We needed an outsider, one with real reddish hair. I rightly a.s.sumed they'd think you came from the Anishna to the north. They have been at war with the Anishna for more than a thousand years, and through those years they have learned to respect the supposed magic the Anishna wield."

I look around and finally notice that nearly everyone carries a weapon of sorts, either holding spears or touching hatchetlike tools on their belts. Wonderful. No point in turning back now. I forcefully shake my staff. It makes the older folks flinch and the young ones giggle. I leave Becca behind and follow my guide inside the tent.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust. I move the staff around and take a series of pictures. Most of my shots are directed at the large mound in the center. Firelight dances on the inside of the thatch. I see an outline of a raised straw bed. On top of this is a ma.s.sive man, likely eight feet tall. His hands are huge; each finger looks to be at least an inch in diameter. I shake my staff to calm my nerves before I realize I may have awakened the giant. I take several more shots and walk closer.

The giant is breathing. He wears only a loincloth and is covered in strange tattoos. I am in awe of this man.

One of the younger boys climbs up the side and offers the giant some water. The giant turns his head to the boy but does not open his eyes. Judging by the blackness around his sockets, he may not have been able to. I take more photos and I start to feel that the giant is near death. His hair is a matted, dirty blond and doesn't fit with the dark hair of the villagers.

I spend the rest of the day meeting various villagers. Becca translates-at least I think she does. With the occasional giggle from the crowd and the blush in Becca's face, I think I am the b.u.t.t of a few jokes.

The next day, Becca wakes me. "Pen.o.bscot, they want you to help the soul cross over."

We rush to the large central building.

The giant is coughing up blood. I wave my staff and in English ask the spirits to take him someplace peaceful.

This is not a time for photos.

That night they take his body to an open fire pit stacked with logs and branches. The giant is set ablaze.

From what I gathered, the villagers found him wandering down one of the roads a few months ago and befriended him. They believed him one of the great giants who pushed back the walls of ice.