D. MacHale - The Pilgrims of Rayne

We joined the crowd to get out of the subway station. The people were all pretty calm considering what they’d just been through. As we moved with the flow, I began to form a plan. I didn’t want to spring it on Courtney until I had the chance to think it through and set things up, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was the best thing for us to do. Maybe the only thing.

No matter how tough it was going to be.

We climbed the stairs into the bright, November sun. Luckily it was a warm day because Courtney didn’t have a sweater or anything. I’m not so sure she would have cared. She was too busy gawking at the new sights. Or should I say the old sights. The Bronx of 1937 was once again busy. Ancient black cars rolled bumper to bumper through the busy intersection. The sidewalks were packed with people. Strangely, the buildings didn’t seem all that alien since tall, cement-faced buildings like this still existed in our time. They just looked a little newer in 1937. The odd thing was what we didn’t see. There wasn’t a single modern-looking steel or glass structure anywhere.

The chemical smell was overwhelming, especially after being on Third Earth, where the air was so clean. I’m guessing it was a mixture of gas, dust, oil, manufacturing exhaust, and BO. Pretty much the normal smells of a crowded city. Giant billboards loomed overhead that advertised everything from soap to liniment. I didn’t even know what liniment was, but the advertisement made it look like I really needed it to “REDUCE PAIN AND CURE ILLS.” I had plenty of ills that needed curing-if I thought a bottle of some bizarre medicine could actually do that, I’d quickly along the sidewalks, headed to wherever it was they were headed. Making the street that much more crowded were the fire trucks that were lined up near the subway entrance. Wailing sirens said there were more on the way. It was a busy day in the Bronx. Thanks to us.

I didn’t say anything to Courtney at first. I wanted her to soak it all up. I knew what it was like to arrive in a new territory. Part of the wonder was seeing a place that was so completely alien. The real brain freeze comes from realizing that you’re standing in the middle of it. There’s no way to get used to that, no matter how often you jump through time and space.

After doing a few slow turns, Courtney focused on me and summed it all up with one simple statement. “Hell of a day.”

I laughed. In the span of a few hours we had gone from Courtney’s house on Second Earth to three thousand years into the future, only to jump back fifty years before we were born. It was definitely a hell of a day. It wasn’t over.

I grabbed her hand and pulled her away from all the excitement. We crossed a few blocks to a wide avenue where traffic was moving faster than a crawl.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Someplace familiar,” I answered.

I hailed a yellow taxi that was headed downtown. Courtney was about to duck into the backseat when she popped back out and asked, “Do we have money for this?”

“Stop worrying,” I said, and gently pushed her into the car.

The cabbie was a jovial-looking guy with a checkered cap. “Where to?” he asked.

“The Manhattan Tower Hotel.”

The guy whistled in appreciation and said, “Well! Ain’t we the fancy ones!”

He stepped on the gas and we were on our way home. At least to my home on First Earth.

“So?” Courtney asked. “What’s the plan?”

I didn’t want to reveal that just yet. I had to make sure it was possible.

“I still have friends at the hotel” was my answer. “They’ll take care of us.”

“Perfect!” Courtney exclaimed. “Then we track down Mark.”

I put my finger to my lips in the “shhh” gesture, and pointed to the cabbie. “One step at a time.”

Courtney huffed and fell silent. The rest of the trip she spent looking out the window at another era. She didn’t say much. She was too busy marveling at the past. It wasn’t until we were almost at the hotel that she finally said, “It’s like watching an old movie, but it’s real, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

“Fifty-ninth and Park!” the cabbie announced as he pulled the cab up to the curb. Instantly a bellhop ran up and opened the car door for us.

“Welcome to the Manhattan Tower!” he exclaimed with a big smile. “Checking in today, sir?”

D. J. MacHale

The Pilgrims of Rayne

I got out of the cab and looked at him. “Pay the cabbie for me, would you, Dodger?”

Dodger, the bellhop, looked at me blankly, as if I had just spoken Latvian. I looked at the confused guy, and smiled. I knew it would take a few seconds for him to catch up.

A moment later his confused look turned to one of wonder.

“Pendragon?” he asked in awe. “Wha-“

“You know I’m good for it,” I said.

“Uh, yeah. Sure, sure,” Dodger said, scrambling to get his wits back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins. Tip money.

While he paid the cabbie, I leaned back into the car and smiled at Courtney. “Come on out and tell me if my description did this place justice.”

Courtney leaped out of the car and looked up at the imposing, pink building. By modern standards it wasn’t monstrous. It stood only thirty-two floors high. But in 1937 it was pretty impressive, complete with the three-foot-high letters near the roof that spelled out its name: THE MANHATTAN TOWER. At night those letters glowed a brilliant neon green and could be seen all over the city. The hotel took up a whole block, resting in a perfectly manicured garden that was like an oasis in the middle of the city. Being November, the leaves on the trees had turned brilliant colors of red, yellow, and orange. There were pumpkins placed everywhere, probably as Halloween decorations from the night before.

Courtney didn’t comment on how impressive it all was. Or on the beauty of the grounds. Or even on how well I had described it in my journals. Her comment was much more Courtney than that.

“Where did it happen?” she asked.

“Where did what happen?”

“Where did that gangster land that Saint Dane threw out the window?”

I gave her a sour look. That particular gruesome event was one I’d managed to forget about. Until then, thank you very much Courtney.

Dodger came running back to us, looking all wide-eyed. I’m guessing he was around nineteen years old, with slicked-back black hair. He was a feisty little guy who couldn’t have been more than five foot three. What he lacked in size he made up for in energy. He was constantly in motion, with eyes that were always looking around for what needed to be done next. On Second Earth you’d call him “hyper.”

“Hey, old pal! I thought you was gone for good!”

When Dodger wasn’t being a professional and speaking with hotel guests, he had a fast way of speaking that he called Brooklynese. To me he sounded like Bugs Bunny. He spoke quickly, changing subjects in midsentence, barely waiting for answers. If you weren’t up to his speed, he’d leave you in the dust. “Is Spader comin’ back too? Did you know Gunny disappeared? Nobody’s seen him since last spring.” He focused on Courtney, leaned in to me, and whispered, “Hey, who’s the skirt?”

“Skirt?” Courtney shouted.

Apparently Dodger’s whisper wasn’t quite low enough. He froze in surprise.

“That’s the sexist stereotype you reduce girls to? Skirts?” Courtney growled.

“Hey, no offense, doll-“

Uh-oh.

“Doll?” Courtney screamed even louder. “Oh, that’s much better.”

She stepped toward Dodger, ready to do battle. The little guy backed away in fear.

I didn’t think he was used to a skirt, uh, a girl being so aggressive.