Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Now

The Rhode Island Boy’s Home stank as boys do. Not the kind of stink one remarks about the cruel, rude, and uncivilized behavior often associated with young boys. No, the ever-present stink of the twenty boys who occupy the former Waveland Mansion hidden off the back roads of Rhode Island wafts onto the neighboring farm in such a way that even the pigs plug their noses with mud. 

Despite the best efforts of the boys, the Waveland Mansion still stands, as it has since 1837. The large, three-story brick house with tall spires on each side once stood out proudly. But the past two centuries saw the trees grow tall and the vines encroach, brick-by-brick, until the vines consumed the entire home and the trees shielded the structure from view of the road. Where once passers by stopped and gawked at such a splashy display of wealth, they now drive right past, unaware of the boys hidden from view behind the trees and the vines and the brick. 

Waveland Mansion has three bathrooms and three showers, though one is reserved for Mr. Moorehouse and Mr. Moorehouse only.

Mr. Moorehouse runs the Boy’s Home, and while some are hard-of-hearing or hard-of-seeing, Mr. Moorehouse is hard-of-smelling, making him the perfect director of a group home for boys without any other home. Maybe his height rises above the stench, or maybe his bushy mustache filters it out before it reaches his nose. Or, perhaps, his skinny body simply doesn’t have enough room for the smell receptacles owned by all the other people who turn and run away (politely) after merely entering the front foyer of Waveland Mansion.

Nonetheless, the backyard became squishy and flooded if more than six boys showered a night. Thus, stink lived in Waveland Mansion just like an annoying roommate you got used to after a while.

Every morning, Mr. Moorehouse counts the boys. They line up along the second-floor banister overlooking the dining room as Mr. Moorehouse proceeds down the line, tapping each on the shoulder with the tip of his cane as he keeps track of the numbers. He hardly ever misses a number.

Every night, Mr. Moorehouse takes a walk through each of the five bedrooms to ensure he has the same number of boys as he did that morning. If he does, it was a good day, and he rarely did anything else during the day. The boys cooked, and the boys cleaned (but mostly the younger ones, prodded into motion by the older ones). 

When a boy turned eighteen, he could leave. Later that day, a new boy appeared. Always twenty, there were. No more, no less. 

No boys ever ran away: these were boys without homes, without beds. If one left, he would likely not have a bed when he returned. Always twenty lived in Waveland Mansion; no more, no less. 

Twenty, and Mr. Moorehouse. 

This was the routine of Jasper Berry for the past five years. At seven, his parents vanished. Within days, two nice but clueless adults who referred to themselves as “The State” had him “relocated” to the Rhode Island Home for Boys. 

No one ever came for any of the boys. When one turned eighteen, he simply left. The rest of the boys waited, day after day, year after dreary year, mulling about waiting to turn eighteen.

Many unusual curiosities occupied this town, not the least of which was why the town of Newhaven Bay had no bay?

But that’s not why tonight was unusual. It came in the middle of the night, while everyone was asleep.

“Jasper,” he heard his name whispered, interrupting his dream. “Jasper!” the whisper interrupted again, this time more urgent. 

He opened his brown eyes and brushed his matted blonde hair out of his pale face. 

Mr. Moorehouse looked like a ghost, prodding Jasper’s shoulder with the tip of his cane. Three blinks, it took, for Jasper to clear the dream from his vision and acknowledge Mr. Moorehouse’s very unusual presence in the bedroom.

“Jasper,” he whispered, one finger pressing against his bushy gray mustache, “It’s very important that you come down with me, quickly and silently.”

Day after day and year after year, Mr. Moorehouse always sounded the same. His boring oldness usually induced a drowsy stupor in even the most hyperactive of boys. Now, his sudden urgency unnerved Jasper. Without saying a word, the small tween slid out of his bedsheet and tried to anticipate the squeaks of his bare feet on the old wood floor. 

“Leave your things,” Mr. Moorehouse whispered a warning. “Come quick.” His gray robe sloshed in the breeze behind him as he turned and swiftly pranced out of the room. 

Jasper danced around the knots in the floor so as to not make a sound, like Mr. Moorehouse told him. Expertly, he drew not a creak to awaken his four other mates, still sound asleep in this hour past midnight. Gently, he closed the door behind him, and took one last look at George, Barty, Fred, and Calvin. 

That would be the last time he left his room at Waveland Mansion. 

Jasper was the one the other boys could count on to sneak through the mansion while Mr. Moorehouse slept. The older boys made him swiftly and silently scurry about, gathering up snacks from the pantry. Not enough that Mr. Moorehouse noticed, but also not enough for Jasper to benefit from his deception. 

Expertly, Jasper used his well-practiced relationship with gravity to descend the grand staircase from the bedrooms to the foyer. There, at the bottom, Mr. Moorehouse waited with another strange man. The man was tall, though not as old as Mr. Moorehouse; and old, but not as tall as Mr. Moorehouse. And he was big, like a baby elephant smushed itself into a human suit and then stuffed into a sweater and tried to hide it all under a raincoat.

Yet, in the man’s eyes, a twinkle of kindness caught Jasper by surprise. 

“Jasper,” Mr. Moorehouse said softly, “This is Fletcher.”

“Is he from ‘The State’ or something?” Jasper asked. The question made sense. “The State” is the only one who ever visited Waveland Mansion. But usually, they were bringing a boy, not taking one. 

“No,” Mr. Moorehouse shook his head. “He-”

“I’m a friend of your parents,” Fletcher interrupted, his voice deep and old, but soft. “And it’s very important that you come with me right now.”

Outside the double oak door of Waveland Mansion, Jasper heard the foreboding sound of heavy rain, a running engine, and the beating of windshield wipers. 

“Where are we going?” Jasper asked with innocence.

“I’ll explain on the way. Here.” Fletcher handed him a coat. An already-packed bag occupied Fletcher’s other hand. 

With a look of confusion and worry, Jasper tilted his eyes up toward Mr. Moorehouse. The old man took a moment to remember what a kind smile looked like, but when he did, gave his best attempt and nodded gently. 

Jasper knew from the old man’s approving smile that Fletcher was a very convincing liar, or he was telling the truth.

And so, with bare feet stepping carefully on the tile floor, Fletcher gestured for Jasper to follow. For the last time, he walked out of the double oak doors of Waveland Mansion. 

His toes splashed in the shallow rain puddles, down the three steps, to the passenger door of Fletcher’s running car. The headlights shone through the raindrops like the eyes of a friendly face, inviting Jasper inside. 

Fletcher closed the door behind him and ran around the long hood. Without saying a word, he shifted the car into gear and wheeled down the driveway. Jasper never rode in a car this direction down the driveway, but this was faster than he imagined they should be going. 

They said nothing to each other as Fletcher raced down the gravel and slung the car to the right onto the long country road away from Waveland Mansion. Neither of them noticed a pair of headlights pull into the driveway behind them. 

Jasper looked up at Fletcher, the gray-haired bull of a man who gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on seeing through the raindrops. 

“My parents,” Jasper queried with morbid curiosity. “You knew them?”

“Know them. Present tense.”

Jasper’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “They’re alive?”

“I presume so.”

“Well then, where are they?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I dunno. And don’t ask me when they are ‘cause I don’t know that either.”

When are they? What a stupid question, Jasper thought, now pondering how much to trust this supposed friend of his parents. 

It was then that Jasper realized he was cold. Fletcher had a wool sweater and a raincoat. All Jasper had were his pajama pants and a t-shirt. Fletcher took his eyes off the road just long enough to notice and reached into the back seat to retrieve a bag.

“Here,” he said, “Warmer clothes and shoes. Put them on.”

“While we’re driving?”

“Yes, of course, while we’re driving. We’re certainly not stopping.”

It seemed strange that they wouldn’t stop. “Are we in danger?” Jasper asked. 

Fletcher simply nodded. “Yes. Yes, we are. Very much in danger.”

“And what does this have to do with my parents?” he asked, while slipping thick socks over his feet. 

Fletcher gripped the steering wheel harder as an oncoming car shone light in his eyes. The wipers continued to thump. 

“Has no one ever told you?”

Again with the stupid questions. What is there to tell me? Jasper shook his head and then pulled a sweatshirt over it. 

“Jasper, your parents are time travelers.”

What? Time travelers? While Waveland Mansion wasn’t the most pleasant of places at times, he was at least safe from having to be driven around with lunatics whose muscles never stopped growing. The other boys lied to him but they never lied about his parents, and they certainly never told him a doozy like your parents are time travelers. 

It wasn’t all that much of a stretch for Fletcher to sense his explanation was not all that believable. Fletcher knew, some day, he would have to convince young Jasper to believe the unbelievable. And so, he began his spectacularly absurd spiel.

“Have you ever had dreams, so real and vivid, yet of places you’ve never seen? Or never been?”

“I haven’t been outside of Waveland Mansion in five years,” Jasper sniveled.

Fletcher couldn’t stop what seemed like a raging delusion. “But, have you? Dreams so real you can read the signs on the buildings and the people look familiar, even though you’ve never seen them?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

Satisfied that no cars were coming for at least the next few feet, Fletcher looked directly into Jasper’s eyes for just a moment.

“No.”

They sat in silence for another few moments, with only the sound of the raindrops and the wipers between them. Indeed, Jasper did have vivid dreams. He had told no one lately. Lately being years. Truth was, most of the other boys at Waveland Mansion didn’t have patience for his dreams. 

He dreamed of frontier towns in the American West, where he felt the burn of the sun on his skin and the dust of sandstorms in his eyes. He knew the horses and the sheriff by name. He knew the heroes and the villains and all the regular folk and they knew him back! 

He dreamed of British castles, and pirate ships, where the captains revered Jasper as being so wise, they set their sails in the directions he commanded. 

He dreamed of the great universities of Morocco and Timbuktu, where scholars from all directions came to hear him speak, to learn from his knowledge.

But when he tried to tell anyone, the other boys whispered among themselves, barely shielding Jasper from the insults they shared between them. His parents took him to Waveland at the age of seven; by nine, he learned to keep his dreams to himself.

He thought – he knew – everybody dreamed. But somewhere inside of him, Fletcher just pressed his truth bone. Very few, if anyone, dreamed the dreams that Jasper dreamed. 

Fletcher watched the road, but tried to explain the best he could. “Your parents are time travelers. Not everyone has this gift, but your parents do, and so do you. They’re fighting against an evil family who use their time travel abilities to hurt and steal, and have for thousands of years.”

The car slowed, and Fletcher turned off the road and through some trees into a hidden clearing. “Tonight, that family is coming for you,” Fletcher warned, as he pulled the car to a stop. “Now come on, let’s go. There’s only one way to keep you safe.”

But Jasper wasn’t ready to go just yet. “Why me?” he asked.

With one hand on the door handle and the other hand on his bag, ready to leap out of the car, Fletcher simply said, “Because, in the future, you’re the one who stops them.”

Fletcher bounded out of the car and looked back, waving with incredible urgency for Jasper to follow. But he couldn’t go, not just yet.

This was the first moment in the past five years he thought of himself as even having a future. His future stopped the moment The State dropped him off at Waveland. His future wouldn’t continue until his parents came back to get him.

It was supposed to be his parents who gave him a future. Not Fletcher, and not today. But here they were.

Through the thumping windshield wipers, Fletcher waved more and more insistently with a growing look of fear in his eyes. Jasper pulled his coat tight and braved the raindrops, throwing his door open to follow wherever Fletcher was taking him. 

They ran to the center of the park. Just like his park back at Waveland, it had no playground equipment nor anything fun to do. To have any fun at Waveland required using your imagination, and the other boys didn’t even have that; they just ran about and wrestled, boringly. 

Raindrops pelted them and their feet sloshed in the puddles as they reached the center. They stopped, and Fletcher kneeled and reached into his bag.

“What are we doing?” Jasper shouted through the raindrops. 

“I’m sending you back in time!”

Fletcher pulled out of his bag a shining crystal – carved with a hundred flat surfaces, like a gem. It glowed a brilliant pattern of green lights that made his hand shine brighter than a lamp. He reached out for Jasper’s hand, extended his fingers, and then wrapped his fingers around it until Jasper’s hand firmly enclosed the crystal. 

“Is it glowing?” Fletcher asked.

“Yeah!” Jasper responded with wonder. Of course it’s glowing! How could anyone not see? What’s up with all the stupid questions tonight?

“Close your eyes, Jasper, and picture me, as a younger man: black hair and black beard, far fewer wrinkles.”

Jasper did as he was told and closed his eyes. His own mind added on to the picture that Fletcher painted. He could see, vividly, a younger Fletcher as if he somehow knew him forty years ago!

It was impossible. He couldn’t have known him! But there was young Fletcher, young and strong, kind and smiling. He could see Fletcher’s house, an A-frame with a giant picture window nestled on a hillside. He could smell the donut shop on the town square, and hear the jazz music played in the park on Tuesday nights. 

“Do you see it?” Fletcher shouted.

“Yeah!”

Then Jasper opened his eyes. A firestorm of green light danced around him. It fully encircled him, like in a storm of enchanted fireflies. 

“Do you see the lights?” Fletcher asked, earnestly.

Bewildered and amazed and distracted, Jasper shouted back, “How can you not?”

Then Fletcher’s eyes turned sad. “Because I don’t have the gift, Jasper. I don’t see anything. Your parents gave me that crystal and they had it all set up in case I ever needed to come rescue you.”

Jasper blinked and stared back through the enchanted lights. He no longer felt the rain, though he could see it still pelting Fletcher. The trees in the background seemed to grow blurry. The clouds cleared and the stars in the sky left trails behind them as the earth began a rapid swirl. 

“You’re not going with me?” Jasper cried out. 

Fletcher just smiled, in his ever-so-kind Fletcher smile that made Jasper feel bad for thinking he was a madman. “I’ll be there when you get there, forty years before now. Just come find me.”

The trees vanished. Fletcher became blurry. A final, quick, but important question popped into Jasper’s mind and he blurted it out:

“Why now? Why are they coming for me now? Not the day I was born?”

As Fletcher disappeared, the final remnants of his voice carried on and echoed, “Because, Jasper, tonight is when your story begins.”