I saw the ad in the local paper. It was stuffed into a corner, barely three lines: Travel, see the sights. No experience needed. Call (555)733-8436 or come to the open house, Thursday at St. Patrick’s Church, 1 to 3 in the basement meeting hall.
It sounded okay, and it wasn’t like they could harvest my organs in the basement of a Catholic church. I needed something; everything else had fallen through, and the rent was due in a week. It was Wednesday afternoon, so I rummaged through my closet and found the clean white button-down blouse I had worn as a server two months ago, a pair of navy blue slacks I had been forced to wear at the call center last year, and a burgundy blazer I wore when I worked retail for two whole weeks around Christmas and had to have something from the store to show off to the customers—all twelve of them—before I couldn’t take the loud music and strong perfumes. I checked and double-checked the address and time, called Anthony to see if I could catch a ride downtown tomorrow, and spent the rest of the evening practicing interview questions and making sure my resume was perfect.
The next day, Anthony got up a little early to take me with him on his way to school downtown. I would have a couple of hours before the open house and could spend it wandering around near campus, looking for any other opportunities if this one didn’t work out. At 12:30, I headed to St. Patrick’s, a tiny old stone church on the corner of Main and First Street, set back from the road and trying its hardest to exude a gothic mystique, with little success. There were a few dozen others outside, some smoking or drinking fancy coffees, others chatting with friends or rehearsing prepared questions. All looking hopeful and eager. I took my spot at the back of the line and waited for things to get started.
As the old, heavy wooden doors creaked slowly open, a silvery light flooded the entrance; suddenly half the eager applicants disappeared. They were there drinking coffee and suddenly gone. I must have dozed off standing—people don’t disappear into silvery lights; they don’t disappear at all.
A squat balding man appeared in the door, the bright lights giving way to the gloomy outside and the shadowy inside, complete with tiny spots of candlelight for atmosphere. “Welcome, please come in. There are donuts and coffee downstairs, and please take an application on your way down.” He smiled warmly before returning to the dark interior and presumably down the stairs.
The remaining applicants and I started a slow line down the basement where too-cold coffee and hard powdered donuts greeted us along with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and a stack of pens and applications. I took mine, sat at an old cafeteria table, and began to fill out the application. After the usual name, address, and date of birth lines, the questionnaire continued with some unusual fill-ins.
Question 1. Do you get airsick or ill when experiencing greater than 3Gs for any period of time?
I was confused but checked no; I hadn’t experienced it so didn’t know.
Question 2. Have you or anyone you know contracted the bubonic plague, sweating sickness, leprosy, Melvin’s syndrome, or the pox?
Again, no, at least I hoped not.
Question 3. Do you speak or write in any of the following: Greek, Latin, Tamil, Aramaic, Hebrew, Egyptian, or Sumerian?
Yes, I had attended synagogue for years and could speak Hebrew quite well.
Question 4. How would you rate the following skills on a scale of 0 (never) to 10 (proficient): Archery - 0.
Horseback riding, leisure or with obstacles - 4 and 1.
Hunting with a musket or spear - 1
Fishing with a net or pole - 7
Plant identification - 7
Animal identification - 5
Farming - 3
Carpentry - 6
Stage acting and performance - 8
Traditional dance - 7
Any other skills you would like to share?
I was a scout for six years and have been primitive camping many times, as well as a biology major in pre-veterinary medicine and grew up near a farm.
Question 5. Do you adapt to new technologies well?
YES!
The application continued in this manner with questions about clay tablet writing, religious history and beliefs, and a section on putting the kings of England, France, and Egypt in chronological order. There was another section on Chinese dynasties and their achievements.
I finished as best I could and hoped I would win them over with my personality and willingness to learn. I looked around the room. Several other applicants had disappeared, but if they had been called and left or just found the questions too weird, I didn’t know. I just hoped I could get this job.
Finally, I was called into the small room off the hall that was used as a choir rehearsal space. Large singing choir boys and girls were painted on the walls, and music stands stood in the corner. I looked around the closeted space, observing three people behind a folding table sitting in uncomfortable chairs. In the middle sat a tall black woman with perfect nails and large, unusual earrings. She motioned for me to sit in the chair directly in front of them. I handed them my application and took a seat in what must have been the world’s most uncomfortable folding chair; it squeaked as I sat down.
The small man who had opened the doors for us spoke first. “Do you like to travel to strange and unseen locations, Miss James?”
I nodded. “Yes, I love to travel. I wish I could afford to do it more, but as a college student, it’s a little hard.”
A stately woman with caramel colored skin and thick black hair took the application. She was stunning. I had never seen a woman so beautiful before in real life. She reviewed my papers before whispering something in the first woman’s ear. She nodded and looked at me. Her dark eyes were piercing but not unkind.
“Miss James, what would you say if I told you we were from a consortium of researchers who specialize in non-linear approaches to historical and future events with mobilization means and transintestinal properties?”
I blinked; that was a mouthful. I thought for a moment, breaking down the sentence into more manageable parts before answering. “You mean you, like, time travel and stuff?”
The man stifled a laugh. “In its most simplistic terms, yes, though we ourselves don’t travel much; we are on the recruitment committee. The actual time traveling would be done by you, if you are selected.”
The interview had taken a decidedly unusual turn. Normally, we would be at the “what makes you want to work here” portion of the predetermined questions. The bizarre requests and unhinged coworkers didn’t usually start until after I took the job.
“What would I have to do?” I said, hoping this was for a video game or some new reenactment society I hadn’t heard of. Maybe it was an undercover screen test for a sci-fi reality show.
“Well, it's quite simple: you would go through a very rigorous training program before being placed into the travel sphere and sent back or forward to a preselected time. There you would, as unobtrusively as possible, document the life and times of that period. Interview the locals, take pictures of the day-to-day life or possibly great events like coronations and treaties being signed. That sort of thing. Then, at a preselected time, you would be brought back to the present to give a report. Does that sound like something you would be interested in?”
I looked at the three faces in front of me. They appeared genuine and eager for an answer. There was no sarcasm or hostility that I could discern in our brief meeting, and I prided myself on being a good judge of character. It was intriguing.
“If I accept, when would I start, and what type of salary do time travelers make?”
The beautiful woman leaned her head in, and the three of them whispered amongst themselves. Finally, the tall woman in the middle spoke. “We would like you to begin as soon as possible; tomorrow would be ideal. Is $250,000 okay starting out? There is some room for negotiation if you need it, of course.”
My heart jumped. Were they serious? No one outside of loan companies trusted a college student with that type of money; my parents didn’t make that much. I tried not to show my excitement before I took a deep breath. “That sounds like a promising start. We can renegotiate after my trial period, of course. I can start tomorrow, if you would like.”
They seemed overjoyed. They each stood and extended a hand. The beautiful woman who only spoke in a whisper to her companions handed me a paper with an address, a time, and a contract. The gentleman spoke. “Please fill this out and meet us at the address tomorrow. It was a pleasure meeting you again, Miss James.”
The quiet woman elbowed him hard in the ribs, but not before I caught the “again.” I shrugged it off and took the papers, returning to campus to wait for Anthony.
We talked about the job all the way home. He told me it was a scam and that I shouldn’t show up at the address; they might kidnap me and sell me to some very bad people. He might have been right if the address wasn’t the former city hall-turned-outreach center.
“No one kidnaps people from an outreach center in broad daylight,” I countered, praying that for once in his life he was wrong.
The next day, Anthony refused to drive, but I was able to catch the bus downtown and arrived early for my meeting. Three of the other people I had seen yesterday were there, casually dressed and with signed contracts in their hands, though I seemed to be the only person with a bag. We walked in together, no one talking to the others, and looked for room forty-six. The three interviewers from yesterday were there with several others, talking and sharing coffee.
“Ah, so good to see you again,” said an older gentleman with a white beard and a thick Italian accent. “And Miss James, you brought your bag with you, very good.”
The other three looked nervously at me; were they supposed to bring bags, too, and had forgotten?
“Now we can begin. Please take a seat over there, and we will get started,” said a small Japanese woman with bright red lipstick.
I took my seat, and soon everyone around me was also sitting. The beautiful woman from yesterday looked around, nodded, and pressed a button. I expected a training video to start, but instead the room began to spin; there was too little air; my stomach was doing somersaults; then it all stopped. Everything was as it had been, only I knew instinctively that it wasn’t.
The doors opened, and more people streamed in, talking too fast and in a language I had never heard. They helped the three others and me out of the room and into the nicest apartments I had ever seen. We were each given private quarters, and classes started an hour later.
No one said we were in the future—they didn’t have to. For most of them it was the present, for some the past. The longer I stayed, the more time lost its meaning. Today was tomorrow (and yesterday). The new recruits and I bonded over being the only ones from our time, except for the Japanese woman, who was the master of Eastern philosophy from 3000 BCE to 6000 CE.
I don’t know how long we were there, learning our skills and what would become our assignments. Given all the skills I was being taught, it was clear I was headed to the late eighteenth century. I learned how to dress, walk, ride, and all the courtly manners, as well as many slang terms that were suspected to be popular at the time. I was drilled in the wars and European monarchies from 1710 to 1860, along with other people of note.
When deemed sufficiently ready, I made my first trip. I was told I was going to arrive in Paris on September 1, 1783, at the Hotel d’York, and would depart from the same spot exactly ninety-six hours later. I entered the sphere filled with a mix of apprehension and excitement; this one was much smaller than the one that had brought me to the consortium. Once again, the world spun, the air began to get thin, and my stomach did flip-flops.
I arrived in Paris two days before the official end of the American Revolutionary War. I was able to photograph Benjamin Franklin—he even hinted he would like to take me back to his hotel. I talked with Americans and Parisians alike, learning of the relief of one and the unrest of the other. Exactly ninety-six hours later, I stood on the same spot where I had arrived, and the sphere appeared. I entered and found myself back exactly where I had started, with only ninety-six minutes having passed at the consortium.
I know this sounds incredible. I can barely believe it myself. I have been on several more missions since. I have seen the grand canal dug and the records of the library of Alexandria, as it was the day before the fire; I took as many scrolls as would fit into my bag. I have seen Pompeii before the volcano and the coronation of Elizabeth III. I even spent an evening with Mary Shelly; the conversation was electrifying.
Mom, I don’t have a lot of time. I have to go soon. But I want you to know that I am okay and that I am loving my life. I don’t know when I will be back, but there should be some money in my account—please use it. Go somewhere and have a second honeymoon with Dad. I love you.
Your loving daughter,
Journey
P.S. Please tell Anthony he was wrong. They have never sent me to a bad man—well, except for the court of Henry VIII, but he had Jane at the time, so I was fine. All my love, XOXO
