Valley of the Moon. Melanie Gideon

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      “Dressed this way? Sleeping on horsehair mattresses on purpose?”

      He stuck his head through the open window. “Martha!” he shouted.

      She swiveled around. It was the woman who’d asked me what was wrong just before I’d fainted.

      “For God’s sake, she’s awake, come inside!”

      Martha got to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. She, too, was attired head-to-toe in period garb. An ankle-length skirt, a long-sleeved blouse, and button-up boots.

      “You’re not an actor? This is not a movie set?”

      “No,” he confirmed.

      “I don’t understand. Why would you choose to live like you’re in the nineteenth century? Are you a religious sect? Is this some sort of a commune?”

      I didn’t really think they were a religious sect, but I hadn’t yet landed on any other plausible explanation. Oddly, he seemed as confused as I felt. His pupils enlarged as he took in my jeans and hiking boots; my appearance was just as shocking to him as his was to me.

      “Come down!” Martha called up from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

      Martha brought a bowl of plums to the table. She was a petite woman, so small that from a distance she looked like a child. Her blond hair was parted in the middle and pulled back severely, but she had a kind face.

      “Are you still hungry?” she asked. “Have some fruit.”

      I’d already devoured my sandwich. “No, thanks, I’m good.”

      We were making small talk but the atmosphere was dense. Questions were gathering like storm clouds. I had questions, too, but they could wait. Their need to know seemed more urgent.

      “We are not actors. We are not a religious sect. This is not a commune,” said Joseph.

      “I didn’t mean to insult you. I was just trying to understand what was going on. Where I was,” I said.

      “You’re at Greengage Farm,” said Martha. “In the Valley of the Moon. You’ve heard of Greengage?” she asked.

      “No.”

      Martha turned to Joseph, her eyebrows knit together in worry, no longer able to hide her emotions. “But we’ve been here for seventeen years. Everybody knows who we are.”

      I shrugged. “I’m sorry. I live in San Francisco. That’s probably why I’ve never heard of you.”

      Joseph picked up Martha’s hand and squeezed it.

      “It’s 1975?” he asked me.

      “Yes,” I said, baffled.

      He gave me a grave look.

      “What is the problem?” I asked.

      He hesitated. “It’s 1906 here.”

      Joseph told me their story. It was simple enough. The earthquake. The fog. Stuck here for four months. Then I arrived.

      What wasn’t simple—believing it.

      “You can’t expect me to buy this,” I said.

      “It’s the truth,” said Joseph.

      “Well, if it’s the truth, I need proof.”

      “Where’s your proof you’re from 1975?” he asked.

      “Look at me,” I said, pointing to my shirt.

      “Look at us. That’s your proof as well,” said Joseph.

      “Show her your passport,” said Martha. “In the parlor desk. Right-hand drawer.”

      He sighed, but left to retrieve it.

      “I’m sure this must be quite shocking,” said Martha. “But I assure you we are just as shocked.”

      I stared at her and shook my head. They were dressed this way because they were from the past? Because they’d somehow got stuck in time? It was laughable. But Martha didn’t look crazy. She looked completely sane.

      “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. But what you’re asking me to believe is impossible,” I said.

      “I know,” said Martha.

      “It’s preposterous.”

      “Yes,” she agreed.

      Joseph returned with his passport. It wasn’t a booklet, like our current-day passports; it was a piece of paper pasted into a leather folio.

      By order of Queen Victoria, Joseph Beauford Bell is allowed to pass freely and without hindrance into the United States of America … blah, blah, blah, antiquated language. His date of birth. July 20, 1864. And at the bottom of the page—a photograph.

      Unmistakably him.

      When I was a child, my father forbade me to read science fiction or fantasy. Trash of the highest order, he said. He didn’t want me muddying up my young, impressionable mind with crap. If it wasn’t worthy of being reviewed in the Times, it did not make it onto our bookshelves.

      So while my classmates gleefully dove into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Borrowers, I was stuck reading Old Yeller.

      My saving grace—I was the most popular girl in my class. That’s not saying much; it was easy to be popular at that age. All you had to do was wear your hair in French braids, tell your friends your parents let you drink grape soda every night at dinner, and take any dare. I stood in a bucket of hot water for five minutes without having to pee. I ate four New York System wieners (with onions) in one sitting. I cut my own bangs and—bam!—I was queen of the class.

      As a result I was invited on sleepovers practically every weekend, and it was there that I cheated. I skipped the séances and the Ouija board. I crept into my sleeping bag with a flashlight, zipped it up tight, and pored through those contraband books. I fell into Narnia. I tessered with Meg and Charles Wallace; I lived under the floorboards with Arrietty and Pod.

      I think it was precisely because those books were forbidden that they lived on in me long past the time that they should have. For whatever reason, I didn’t outgrow them. I was constantly on the lookout for the secret portal, the unmarked door that would lead me to another world.

      I never thought I would actually find it.

      While I examined Joseph’s passport, Martha did some quick calculations on a piece of paper.

      “Joseph, if she’s telling the truth, sixty-nine years have passed out there, but only four months in Greengage. That means almost three and a half of her hours pass per minute here. She’s been here half an hour at least. That’s СКАЧАТЬ