Rewinder

CHAPTER NINE

From the beginning we were told training would last three months. What wasn’t made clear to us was that this only meant three months in 2014. The reality is that the final three weeks of practical experience last as long as one’s instructor feels is necessary. When you go back in time, you can stay there as long as you want and still return minutes after you left. So, for those who are still plodding away in my home time, three and a half weeks for them could be four months for me.

I’m not complaining. The time I spend with Marie traveling into the past is nothing short of amazing. Our first “case” is to trace the family lineage of an institute patron named Sir Lionel Mason. We move slowly, rewinding first Sir Mason’s own life, witnessing snippets of his successes and failures, making sure to note everything. We then move on to his parents, and then his parents’ parents, and so on, each step back expanding the number of people we must track. We’re on the job for nearly three weeks of real time — living and breathing time — before Marie is satisfied with my work and allows us to return to the very day we left.

I will grow old very quickly this way, and I say as much to Marie.

“It’ll be different after your training is done,” she tells me. “Once you’re officially a personal historian, when you push the HOME button, your real time in the past will equal the amount of time you’ve been gone. No unnecessary aging.” She thinks for a moment. “I should say that’s how it usually works. You may, on occasion, be asked to make an expedited trip and you’ll return right after you leave.”

“Is there a reason why that happens?”

She shrugs. “Whatever the reason, you’re not likely to be told.”

“A rush for a client?”

She hesitates. “That could be it.” Like on a few previous occasions, she seems to be holding something back. Whatever that might be, she continues to keep it to herself.

By the time my training nears its end, I have visited nearly every year going back to 1900, and dozens of years earlier than that. On most trips going more than eighty years back, we use the automated function and do them in hops to reduce the side effects. Marie makes me take one long trip all the way back to 1645 so I’d understand why the hops are necessary. The pain is so intense I pass out moments after we arrive. When I come to, I make it clear to her it’s a lesson that does not need repeating.

When I arrive for my very last day of training, I ask Marie, “So, who are we tracing today?

“No one.”

“No one? We’re not going anywhere?”

“Did I say that? Pull out your Chaser, please.”

As soon as I do, she pushes the GO button on her device and we wink out of 2014. In the now familiar gray mist of the journey, I can sense Marie’s companion. This is something that’s been building from trip to trip. It’s like that feeling that someone’s watching you but you’re never quite able to figure out who. Marie tells me the link will be even stronger with my own companion after I’ve worked with that person for a while. There are pairs of Rewinders and companions who are so compatible that they’re able to communicate through the link. I’m not sure if I want that or not.

Our journey is apparently a long one, as we end up making five different stops before we settle on the bank of a river. Having unexpectedly — at least in my mind — arrived during daylight, my training immediately kicks in and I drop to the ground, my head moving back and forth as I scan the area to make sure we haven’t been spotted. But we’re completely alone.

“Good response, though you could have probably dropped a second sooner,” Marie says.

A half second at most, I think, but I’m not going to argue. I rub away my headache as I look out at the wide river. “Where are we?”

“Spain. The Guadalquivir River.”

That would explain the sweat on my brow. “What are we doing here?”

“Is that the right question?”

Of course it isn’t. “When are we?”

“The tenth of August, 1519.”

The date is a familiar one. But with all the practical training we’ve been doing, I’m a bit rusty with my studying.

“There,” she says, pointing upriver.

The bow of a ship is just coming into view, and that’s when I remember. It was even a question on the very test that brought me to the institute’s attention.

There are five ships total. I don’t remember the names of all of them. One, I believe, is the Victoria, another the Santiago. There is one whose name I do know for sure. The Trinidad, flagship of Ferdinand Magellan’s fleet. This is the day he sails to the coast where his journey around the world will begin, a trip Magellan will not finish. But both he and I are here at the start, separated only by the flowing river.

When the ships finally sail out of sight, all I can say is, “They’re smaller than I pictured in my mind.”

I look over at Marie to see if she’s heard me, but she seems lost in thought.

When I open my mouth to ask if she’s all right, she says quietly, “And look what we’ve become.”

“I’m sorry?”

She glances over as if she momentarily forgot I’m here. “Don’t get used to this,” she says, ignoring my question. “Historical moments will seldom be on your agenda. Consider this a present from me, for doing a good job.” She looks back at the now empty river. “Remain true and keep your eyes open, and you’ll be one hell of a Rewinder.”

She short-hops us back to 2014.

Before dismissing me for the last time, she takes my Chaser and disables the slave mode. It may not be official yet, but I feel like I’m already a Rewinder.

Graduation is a formal affair in the gardens behind Upjohn Hall. There must be two hundred people in attendance. The first group to be honored consists of the twelve people who started out as Rewinder trainees but have been reassigned as companions. None of them appear particularly happy, and a few even shoot scornful looks in our direction. And why not? I wouldn’t be happy, either.

After the new companions have been acknowledged, Lady Williams gives a speech about the obligations that come with being a personal historian, and the absolute dedication each of us needs to bring to our role every single day. She then focuses on the importance of the Upjohn Institute to the empire, and talks wistfully about the beginnings of the organization and all the families it has helped. Her words are met with polite applause, making me think this isn’t the first time she’s given this speech.

Finally, she calls the new Rewinders one by one to the stage, where each personal instructor gives his or her student a certification of completion. When my turn comes, Marie whispers as she shakes my hand, “Do good.”

The student in me wants to ask her if she meant to say, “Do well,” but something in her eyes tells me she meant exactly what she said.

When we leave the stage, we are guided over to where the new companions stand.

Back at the stage, Sir Gregory takes the microphone and says, “It’s now time for the pairing. The selections are not arbitrary, but the result of considerable analysis and consideration. As each pair is called out, you will stand together.” He reads the pairs but foregoes the usual alphabetical order. Instead of being last, I’m third.

“Denny Younger and Palmer Benson.”

What I remember most about Palmer is that he’d often hang out with Lidia during off hours, which is probably why we’ve never shared more than a few words.

And probably why we share only two now.

“Hi,” I say as I move next to him.

“Yeah,” he replies.

Sir Gregory encourages us to spend the afternoon with our companions, but as soon as we’re dismissed, Palmer takes off. I’m actually glad he’s uninterested in forming a friendship. It’ll be easier for me to forget the pain I’ll be causing him later.

As Palmer walks away, I notice Lidia watching him, too. Suddenly she turns and looks in my direction, hate oozing out of every pore, and I instantly know what she’s thinking. Palmer should be standing in my spot, ready for his life as a Rewinder, while I should be the companion.

The supervisor I’m assigned to work with for my first nine months is a veteran Rewinder named Merrick Johnston. He makes it clear from the beginning that ours is strictly a working relationship, and as long as I do exactly what he tells me, we won’t have any problems. I have no doubt the types of question I often asked Marie would not be welcome.

Johnston turns out to be a master at blending into whatever era we visit. Vowing to myself to be as good as he is, I watch his every move and study each choice he makes. Through the last months of 2014 and the first few of 2015, we trace the histories of dukes and lords and barons and leaders of industry and business. We delve into the past and uncover the expected ancestral triumphs that lifted families to prominence, and the ugly, buried secrets those in bygone generations assumed would never be known.

I immerse myself in my work, and even when we’re not traveling, I continue my studies into the past so no decade I visit will be unknown to me. It’s purely by accident that I see the story in the newspaper.

The world of my home time has become all but invisible to me. The institute is my life. The only time I leave the grounds is when I go into the past. The world of today is something I never think about.

I’m in the library, where I spend most evenings researching, when I see it. Johnston has told me that tomorrow we’ll be traveling back to 1943, so I’m in the mid-twentieth-century section for a quick refresher.

It’s a tense era. The Russian Empire is dealing with internal revolts that will last until the czar’s army is finally able to squash them in 1948. Closer to home is the growing tension between the British Kingdom and China. The war neither empire really wants is still another decade away, but the people of ’43 don’t know that. For them, the Chinese’s desire to reclaim the coast from north of Shanghai all the way to southeast Asia could turn hostile at any moment.

I roll my head from side to side, trying to work out the ache in my neck and shoulders, but I know the only thing that will make it go away is rest. I could read more but I’m more than prepared for the trip, so I shelve the book I’ve been reading and turn to leave.

The newspaper sits on one of the stuffed chairs along the wall. It catches my attention because it’s the first one I’ve seen since coming to the institute. The paper is folded so that an article on one of the inside pages is showing. The headline is why I pick it up.

It’s a name I know very well. Less than two months ago, Johnston and I rewound the man’s history. Though we’ve traced two other families since then, Walker’s has stuck in my mind because of the irregularity we uncovered.

I read the article and learn that Walker — owner of the largest construction company on the East Coast of North America, and the fourth Harlan of his family — was found in his office, dead of natural causes. Unnamed medical sources report he had a hereditary heart condition that resulted in a massive coronary the previous afternoon.

I frown. Someone doesn’t know what he or she is talking about.

Here’s what I know.

Harlan Walker was thirty-seven years old. I’ve seen Walker’s medical records. I have seen his father’s and mother’s medical records. I have seen the medical records belonging to his grandfathers and grandmothers and great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Not a single one of them had a heart condition.

I flip the paper over so I can read the rest, and have to go over the second-to-last paragraph twice to make sure I didn’t read it wrong.

Again, what I know. Harlan Walker was unmarried but on the cusp of becoming engaged. This was the reason he hired the institute. He needed to verify his lineage before he could marry the daughter of a duke. What we found was that his grandmother on his father’s side had an affair. His father, Harlan III, was the result, making Harlan IV the son of an illegitimate heir.

We collected hair samples that the institute’s lab tested to confirm this discovery, and we included the evidence in our report. Though it was never said outright, Johnston all but told me this information would not be given to the client, meaning the official report Harlan IV received would be clean.

The next-to-last paragraph in the news article makes me wonder if what we learned was truly buried.

Walker Construction’s board of directors confirms that ownership of the company will pass to Walker’s cousin Teresa Evans and her husband, Mathew Evans. In addition, a family source reports the estate will be making sizeable donations to several organizations, including the Health Fund of the Atlantic, Catherine University, and the Upjohn Institute.

As a personal historian, albeit one who’s still very new to the job, I’ve been trained to look for connections that will help unearth real stories. So I can’t help but make the connection that’s staring me in the face. Walker hires the Upjohn Institute. The Upjohn Institute — via Johnston and me — uncover a shattering truth about Walker’s past. And now Walker is dead, and the institute has come into a “sizeable donation.”

This is one of those things I desperately want to talk to someone about, someone who can tell me I’m just overthinking. I decide I’ll risk bringing it up with Johnston — very cautiously. After I go back to my room, I lie awake until well after midnight before I come up with an approach I hope will work.

I arrive in our prep room early the next morning and place the newspaper on the counter along the back wall.

Twice I go back and adjust its position. I’m not satisfied that it doesn’t look planted but I finally force myself to leave it alone.

At my closet, I begin changing into the era-appropriate clothing that’s been left for me. I’m buttoning up my shirt when Johnston enters.

“Morning,” I say.

When he glances over and grunts, I think he knows I’m up to something. I turn away so he can’t see my face and I take a deep, silent breath. I listen as my supervisor dons his wardrobe, and when I hear him start tying his shoes, I wander toward the back of the room.

“What’s this?” I say. God, could that have sounded more fake?

I pick up the paper and pretend to read. I’m not so stupid as to have left the article about Walker front and center, so I scan the front page and then open it to take a look inside.

“Where did you get that?” Johnston asks, his tone accusatory.

I glance over and see him walking angrily toward me.

“It was, uh, sitting here.” I point at the counter.

The thumb of my other hand rests right below the headline proclaiming Harlan Walker’s death. As I start to look down so that I can “notice” the article, Johnston snatches the paper out of my hands.

“This shouldn’t be here,” he says and crumbles it up.

“It’s just a newspaper.”

Using the paper to emphasize his words, he says, “Our concern is the then, not the now. The only thing about 2015 that’s important is that it’s where you learn your next assignment. Got it?”

“Of course,” I say, trying hard not to glance at the paper.

I’m hoping he’ll toss it on the floor, and I can lag behind, hide it somewhere, and retrieve it later, but it’s still in his hand as we walk out. As we pass one of the institute’s security men, Johnston shoves the paper into the guy’s hand and says, “Dispose of this.”

The pit of my stomach plummets toward the center of the earth. That did not go anywhere near how I was hoping it would. Not only is the article gone, but I can’t bring up the subject of Walker now without risking Johnston finding out I brought the paper into the prep room in the first place.

I tell myself I need to forget the whole thing, but throughout our assignment I keep thinking about Walker and the money the institute is receiving.

When we return the next evening, it’s bothering me so much that I go in search of Marie. Though I haven’t seen her since graduation, I know she’ll at least listen to my questions. But she’s not around. Over the next several days I continue trying to see her, but either my timing’s bad or she’s avoiding me because I’m always told she’s busy elsewhere.

I decide that if I can’t find her, maybe I can at least find another newspaper. Everywhere I go in the institute, I keep my eye out, but I never see one. This is when it dawns on me that, with the exception of the paper I found in the library, the last one I saw was back in New Cardiff.

Several weeks after my failed attempt to talk to Johnston, we return early from an assignment and I find myself with my first open afternoon. I decide to take advantage of the opportunity and head for the gate leading into the city, where I can find a newspaper. But as I approach the main gate — a thick wooden door in the stone wall surrounding the institute — a security man steps from a nearby hut and says, “May I help you?”

“I can get the gate myself, thanks.”

When I step toward the gate, he moves in front of me. “Do you have authorization?”

“I’m only going to be gone a half hour at most,” I tell him. “Just taking a walk.”

“May I have your name?”

“Why do you need my name?”

“If you don’t want to tell me, I can easily look you up.”

He’s right about that. There’s a directory with everyone’s name and picture in it. “Denny Younger,” I say.

“And your position?”

This makes me feel even more uncomfortable. “Junior personal historian.”

He pulls a notebook from his back pocket and writes down the information. When he finishes, he says, “Mr. Younger, I’m sorry. Without authorization from your supervisor, I can’t let you leave. If it’s walking you’re interested in, the institute grounds provide plenty of options.”

His smile tells me our conversation is over and that he doubts I’ll be back. He’s right. Johnston would never give me authorization without asking questions I don’t want to answer.

When I arrive at my room, I find another security man waiting by my door.

“Mr. Younger?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Please come with me.”