Emily woke with a start, sitting up quickly in bed.
She checked her phone. 7:30. Mom should be up already. Why had there been no confrontation?
“Oh, no no no!” she said.
She dressed as quickly as possible, but took the time to brush her teeth. Just in case.
Just in case what? she wondered.
She practically ran down the stairs, bursting into the guest room to find it empty with the bed made.
Had she imagined it?
He was not in the living room. Not in the bathroom. She did not see him outside.
“Emily,” her mother called from the kitchen.
Emily tried to control her breathing, purposefully calming her body as she walked into the kitchen as if nothing at all unusual had happened.
Her mother stood in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, and watching the morning light come through the window. Mom was a young looking forty. At a distance, they’d been mistaken for twins more than once. The same petite frame, honey blonde hair, narrow face with the upturned nose. The same smattering of freckles and pale blue eyes that looked almost grey in certain light. Pixie-ish was a term Emily had grown to hate, but she supposed it applied to her mother as well.
“Do you want to tell me about last night?” her mother asked.
“Why? What do you mean about last night?” Emily asked innocently.
“I stripped the guest bed this morning,” Mom said carefully. “There were… black hairs in the bathroom sink. We’re both blonde. You obviously had someone here.”
“What—?” Emily stammered.
“Come on, Honey. You cleaned up pretty well, but two plates, two glasses in the sink.”
“I thought I got all those,” Emily whispered. “Did you see—?”
“What are you looking for?” Mom asked.
“Um,” Emily said.
“What is it?” Mom said, a worried look on her face.
“It’s hard to explain,” Emily said.
“Try me,” Mom said, watching her daughter glance outside and move around the house, looking out windows. She followed her daughter, a bewildered look on her face. “What is it?” she asked.
“A man,” Emily said. “I’m trying to find a man.”
“Aren’t we all?” Mom said.
“A specific man, Mom,” Emily said.
Her mother looked at her a strange expression coming over her face. “Did you bring a man home last night?”
“It’s difficult to explain,” Emily said.
“Emily. I will not ask again. Did you bring a man home with you last night?”
“I did,” she said. “But it’s not what you think.”
“Oh, really? Explain.”
“Not now, Mom,” she said, heading to the garage.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked.
“I’ve got to find him. I’ll be back. Soon, I hope.”
Emily opened the garage door and walked out toward the street, looking both ways and across the backyards, but Caleb was nowhere to be seen.
She returned to the car and started her SUV. The radio came on, mid-broadcast.
“—still no official comment from Homeland Security on the three men taken into custody along the Penobscot River south of Bangor yesterday. The first, a man wearing what appeared to be an authentic Scottish military kilt, was pulled from the river near Brewer by Maine State Troopers after reportedly brandishing what has been described as a revolutionary-era pistol. The man claimed to be a member of the 74th Regiment of Foot and demanded to be returned to Fort George. Two additional men were found on the west bank of the Penobscot within hours of each other, one claiming to be colonial militia. All three men insist the current date is August 18, 1779. Authorities are treating the incidents as a coordinated hoax, though social media speculation continues to grow. Analysts have confirmed that the tartan worn by the first man is consistent with the Montgomery family of Argyll, Scotland, prompting some to question the resources required to stage such an elaborate—”
Emily turned the radio off. Her hands were shaking.
She drove around the neighborhood, but found no sign of him. It was such a strange feeling to worry for someone she shouldn’t be worried about. Why should this stranger matter to her?
But the thought vanished from her mind. Something strange had happened, and he was caught up in it. No matter what, he was still just a human being in over his head. She couldn’t just abandon him.
She didn’t find him in the park or the shopping center or the town square.
Where could he have gone? Where would a sailor—?
She found him seated on a park bench overlooking the harbor, filled with boats of all kinds.
“Thank God,” she said, pulling into the harbor parking lot. “Caleb!” she called out to him.
He waved her over, and stood when she arrived at the bench.
“You left!” she hissed.
He looked her in the eyes, questioning.
“I was worried, Caleb.”
“My apologies, Miss Emily. The house was still sleeping, and I did not wish to disturb anyone. Also, I thought it best to not be there when your mother awoke. I had no wish to harm your reputation.”
She sighed, and sat with him on the bench. “You’re probably right, but she wasn’t fooled. She knows I was with someone last night.”
“I am sorry,” Caleb said.
“It’s nothing,” Emily replied. “What are you doing?”
“I have been observing these boats since dawn,” he said. “There are very few boats with masts and sails, yet they move about swiftly making noise as if thunder were captured within them.”
“They are motorboats,” Emily said. “They have motors that burn fuel, typically made of petroleum. The motors spin an angled blade that cuts through the water, propelling the boat.”
“Petroleum. Tar? I know it burns.”
“I think so,” Emily said.
“But I don’t see any fire.”
“It’s complex,” she said. “The fire is contained within the motor. It isn’t seen.”
He turned to her. “Emily, what has happened to me?” he asked.
“You have come forward in time,” she said, thinking of no other way to say it.
“I gathered this must be the case,” he said. He started to say something, but stopped himself.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s been two centuries. That means everyone I ever knew is dead now. Gone. My parents are gone. My siblings are gone. You are the only person I know.”
Emily said nothing. Instead, she took his hand in hers.
“Everything is so strange,” he said. “We are no longer at war with the British.”
“No, we are friends again and have been for a long time. We are allies.”
“And this is still America, still the thirteen states?”
“Yes, it’s still America, but there are fifty states now.”
“Fifty?” he asked in astonishment.
“All the way to the Pacific Ocean.”
“That’s real?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “The Pacific Ocean is real.” She stopped talking for a moment, watching him as he watched the bay. “Caleb?”
“Yes, miss Emily?”
“There were three more men found, like you, who claim to be from 1779,” she said.
“Really? Who were they?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “There have been some social media videos. Lots of them, that are trying to piece it together. It was on the news and there’s lots of speculation, but it’s now being portrayed, officially, as a hoax. But still on social media, people are following up on it. There seems to be a lot of things that, if a hoax, were done very well.”
“What is social media?” Caleb asked.
“Oh,” Emily said. “It’s where—I don’t know how to explain it. Anyone can write anything they want and everyone in the world can see it, instantly.”
“Everyone is a publisher then?” he asked. “How does the distribution of papers work?”
“Oh, you have so much to learn!” Emily said. “Do you know anyone with the last name Montgomery?”
“Can’t say that I do,” he said. “Why?”
“One of the men was wearing a kilt with a tartan of a family known as Montgomery that originated out of or near of Argyll, Scotland.”
“That’d be a Scotsman from Fort George then,” Caleb said. “He’d be part of the 74th Infantry, I think they called it.”
“So not a friend of yours,” she said.
“Definitely not,” Caleb said. “Nothing against him personally, but we were on opposite sides.”
They sat in silence for a moment until Emily realized she was still holding his hand. She slipped her fingers free and balled her hand into a small fist which she placed on her lap to keep from doing something so foolish again.
“Did you—Did you see men die?” she asked.
He dropped his gaze to his empty hand, rubbing his fingertips with his thumb. “I buried a mate. You knew that. But, yes, there were others.” He paused. “Some things are best not to talk about.”
She nodded, but said nothing.
When he turned to look at her, she said, “The police have arrested the other three.”
“For what crimes?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but they have ways of locking people up. So I think it would be best if you came back to the house with me. In case they are looking for others.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I apologize for leaving this morning without telling you.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
“You’ve brought your carriage again?” he asked.
“It’s a car, Caleb.”
“That’s just a shortened version of carriage,” he said.
“But that’s how we say it,” Emily said.
He nodded and followed her to the car.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
My favorite lines:
“You’ve brought your carriage again?” he asked.
“It’s a car, Caleb.”
“That’s just a shortened version of carriage,” he said.