A Keyhole in Time

A Keyhole in Time

By James Powell (excerpt)

… Voyce smiled at the young man’s confusion. “No, of course you don’t understand. Keyholes in time won’t be discovered for another five centuries.”

Hogarth giggled and sat down on an arm of his easy chair. “Yeah, sure. Keyholes in time.”

‘John’s great-great0grandfather found the first one,” said Mary Voyce proudly.

“On a picnic,” said Voyce. “While the others hunted wildflowers and morels he chose to wander off alone. The day was humid. Suddenly he felt a curious puff of dry air against his cheek. He raised his hand and felt it on his palm. Putting his eye to the little breeze, he saw spread out before him ancient Ninevah, “that rose-red city half as old as time,” as the poet tells us.”

“Petra, dear,” said Mary Voyce. “The “rose-red city”, et cetera, was Petra, not Ninevah.”

John Voyce’s look was only momentarily severe. He gave er a grateful smile. “Correction duly noted, my dear.” Then he turned back to Hogarth. “For the next few yars, Great-great-grandfather roamed the countryside palm vertical, searching for more keyholes in time. They weren’t all that rare once you knew where to look. Ancient battle sites were a good place. In fact he once considered a compliation, Voyce’s Keyhole Guide to the Battlefields of the American Civil War, that would doubtless have made his fortune. Instead…”

“Strange, isn’t it, Raymond?” asked Mary Voyce. “Without the Civil War few of your male contemporaries would know any history at all?”

A keyhole in time. Image by Elena.

“Instead,” repeated Voyce firmly, “Great-great-grandfather kept the keyholes a secret, sharing them only with other seruoys observers of the slow unraveling of the daily life of the past. They soon discovered that for every keyhole there was a door, an entry into the past. And so the science of yester-engineering was born. Of course it was years before we actually tried tinkering to alter history’s course.”

Mary Voyce said, “Raymond, don’t thing of history as a highway you could travel if you only had Time’s winged chariot with the odometer ticking off the years. No, the past, present, and future are right here only a keyhole’s thickness away. This very spot which you call Powder Horn Hill and the Indians called Mattawasa or High Gathering Place, we call Junkyard Ridge. Here, during the Second Genetic War, Seven-Toes the Foot and his Mongrel Horde crushed the Tin Dragoons and early prototype of the Robot Greandiers. This battle…”

Hogarth swallowed hard and turned white before their eyes. “I used to get these nightmares,” he whispered. “First it’s pitch dark. Then this terrible racket starts up, like some distant battle coming my way and coming fast. Suddenly, whammo, it’s blood and fire everywhere and men and machines and body parts, cogwheels, boilerplate, and pistons flying through the air. Then clang! clang! In jumps thish big hairy guy, bare to the waist and bashing left and right with this crazy-looking mother of all hammers.”

“A sledge laser,” said Voyce. “That was Foot. And the machinges he was basjing looked like dumpsters with nineteen fifties Pontiac tail fins, right?” Voyce returned Hogarth’s nod. “The Tin Dragoons,” he said.

“Anyway, this Foot guys sees me,” said the young man in a tembling voice. “And he lets out a roar and heads my way. I want to run but my legs won’t work. I scream myself awake.”

“A pity your mother wasn’t around to rock you in her arms and comfort you,” said Mary Voyce.

Hogarth sat frightened and breathing heavily.

“The matrix between past and future can wear thin,” explained Voyce. “Sometimes the future bleeds through into dreams. Someties the past casts those night shadows men used to call ghosts.” He looked at the clock. “All right,” he said quickly, “here”s what’s going to happen. When Edgar arrives you’ll both start shouting insults. Then he’ll give this laugh like you’re dirt.”

“That’s Edgar, all right, said Hogarth bitterly.