The Gift of Time

People imagine time travelers winking out of the present and into a past or future century. The person is normally transported by some mechanical contraption that can bend time to the traveler's will, depositing him or her in the middle of an ancient battle or future discovery. In either case, a heroic act is performed that forever alters the course of humanity.

Sorry folks, but it just doesn’t work that way!

What I am about to share with you is how I’ve traveled through time. Although my story starts in the present it began 674 years ago.

We left the opulent dining room and retired to a small, well-appointed library. Small is a relative term, as Jack McCabe doesn’t own anything small - why should he? Jack has the dubious distinction of being the world’s first trillionaire. No matter how much money a person can amass in a lifetime, it still comes down to how much time you have before your personal clock runs down to zero. Jack’s clock is rapidly approaching his last hour. His body is a weak, gnarled shell that has to be transported by a powered chair. He has lost all his hair, and his senses of smell and hearing are fading fast. Jack’s eyes, although requiring glasses to see clearly, still show the fierce determination of a world-class predator. Solving the time problem is why McCabe had his men bring me, Michael White, to his estate.

“Well, Mr. McCabe, I mean Jack, I’m sure that was the best meal a kidnap victim has ever been served,” I said.

“Come now Michael, don’t you think kidnap is a rather strong word?”

“If two armed men arrived at your door and said you were required to accompany them to my house, and no was not an option, what would you call it?” I countered.

Jack chuckled hoarsely and said, “Actually, they would never have made it past the front gate.”

“I have no front gate or personal security service, so I guess I’m at a definite disadvantage. All that aside, why have you brought me here?”

“Well, let’s start with something simple. Who is Michael White? I’ve traced you back about thirty years, but then you simply disappear. There is no digital footprint, no birth or death records, and no old credit reports; nothing that would verify you ever existed. How is that possible?”

Before I could answer, Jack’s great-grandson, Peter, came bursting into the room with all the exuberance of a 4-year-old. “Come see what I made for you, grandpa!”

Jack was both annoyed and amused by his great-grandson’s determination and excitement.

“Go with him,” I said. “It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere soon. Besides, time with your family is too precious to waste when there is so little of it left.”

Jack gave me a knowing look and replied, “You’re right! Please make yourself at home. I’ll be back after I’ve examined this new masterpiece of Peter’s.”

Jack and Peter left the room, and I poured myself another snifter of brandy. I settled into a comfortable chair and thought about the question… “Who is Michael White?”

1349

I was born Michel LeBlanc to a French peasant family in the year of Our Lord 1349. The Black Death was at its peak, claiming over a third of Europe’s population. The plague had taken my father a week before I was born, and my mother three days after she gave birth to me. A 12-year-old girl heard me crying as she passed our hut. Wanting to offer help, she entered the one-room dwelling and found me lying next to my dead mother. Antoinette, my rescuer, wrapped me in the only clean blanket she could find and took me to a wet nurse. My hunger satisfied, I stopped crying and quickly dropped off to sleep. Renée, my nurse, and my mother had been friends. When Antoinette told her how she found me, Renée cared for me as long as she could.

After six years of struggling to feed her own children plus me, Renée went to the local priest for help. Monsignor Jacque was getting on in years and decided he could use a house boy, so I went to live with him. In return for working in his garden, cleaning the rectory and church, feeding the animals, and a myriad of odd jobs, I received food, clothing, a place to sleep in the hayloft, and most importantly, an education. Only the clergy and noblemen knew how to read and write in the 1300s. With knowledge comes value, and often power; my value to the priest grew as his eyesight dimmed.

Time passed, and each year was much like the one before: work, study, and run errands. I was walking back to the rectory early one evening when I came upon a man lying in the gutter. Highwaymen had beaten, robbed, and left him for dead. I helped him to his feet as best a 12-year-old boy could, and somehow got him to my hayloft. I never told the priest I had given shelter to this man. He healed remarkably fast and by the evening of the third day; he felt strong enough to continue his journey. I asked him to stay one more night because it was safer to travel during the day. The man, I never got his name, looked into my eyes with an intensity I had seen no one exhibit before. It felt like he was peering into my soul, the very essence of my being. I cannot describe the strange sensation that shot through me, and then the uneasiness was gone. It appeared the whole thing had never happened, and he continued the conversation by agreeing to stay one more night and went back to his mound of straw to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, the man was gone. By my sleeping pallet was a note that read:

My friend, I have looked into your soul and found you worthy.

I have bestowed upon you a magnificent gift, although at times you

may feel it is a curse. Use it with great discretion.

All will become clear to you in time.

I searched the entire stable for this supposed gift but found nothing. As usual, there was much to do, so I tucked the paper in with my meager belongings and started the day’s chores. It didn’t take long for my adolescent brain to forget about the man, the note, and the supposed gift.

The Present

Jack and Peter returned to the library. Peter, as excited as before, exclaimed, “Look what I drew for Grandpa. He really likes it, do you?”

On the paper, drawn in crayon, was a sketch of the mansion showing Peter’s grandfather in his motorized wheelchair, sitting in the entryway to his mansion, appearing to be surveying his domain. The drawing contained a remarkable amount of detail for a 4-year-old.

“That’s a fine drawing, Peter. You really have a talent for art,” I said as the boy stood there beaming.

“Peter, fetch some paper and crayons for Mr. White. He is the actual artist. Maybe he’ll draw us a picture?”

“Okay Grandpa,” said Peter as he ran out of the room in search of supplies.

I stared at Jack and asked, “How do you know about my sketches?”

“In good time, Sir, in good time.”

Peter returned promptly and handed me several blank sheets of paper and a box of crayons.

“What would you like me to draw for you, Peter?” I asked.

Jack spoke first and suggested, “How about a picture of what Peter will look like when he is 40 years old?”

“That’s an odd request. How am I supposed to know what Peter will look like when he’s 40?”

“Not all that odd for a person with your talent, I would think. I hear you can draw amazing likenesses of people, either from their past or their distant future.”

“I’m not sure where you received your information, but you must have me confused with someone else.”

I turned to Peter and said, “How about a drawing of a wild horse?”

“Yes, Sir. I like horses a lot.” Peter was bubbling over with youthful anticipation as I drew, all the while I kept a wary eye on Jack McCabe.

1362

Etienne de Poissy, the Archbishop of Paris, was returning from Avignon, where Pope Urban, V was just elected. Daylight was running out, so the archbishop decided to spend the night visiting his old friend, Monsignor Jacque. The two companions spent the evening amiably discussing church matters and learning about each other’s recent experiences. The archbishop observed the teenager attending them and inquired about him. Father Jacque couldn’t sing Michel’s praises enough. He talked about the boy’s brilliant mind, his aptitude for languages (now fluent in French, Latin, and Greek), and his ability to draw lifelike portraits.

“I’ve taught him all I know,” said Father Jacque. “What he really needs is a first-rate scholar to tutor him.”

“If he’s that good,” replied the Archbishop, “I can arrange to continue his education with the Benedictines, providing he’s prepared to move to Paris.”

Michel couldn’t believe his ears; move to Paris, the City of Lights. How my life was about to change, from being born in a poor serf’s hut to being taught by scholars. I packed my meager belongings, including the letter from the mysterious stranger, and joined the Archbishop’s entourage when it left the next morning.

1366

I spent the next four years studying under the Benedictine monks at the Abbey of Saint Germaine-des-Prés, on the outskirts of Paris. It was a great time to be a young scholar. Even though the Hundred Years War was raging on, King Charles V had regained much of the land lost to the English, and the age of the Renaissance had begun. I had learned Italian and Spanish and even a smattering of English. My mathematics was strong and my geography passable.

What set me apart was my sketching ability. Because of my connection to the Archbishop, I spent a lot of time at court. I would sketch noblemen, ladies, and occasionally the king. My work was unique from other artists because of my ability to draw subjects, not how they looked in the present, but how they had looked in the past. Also, for those adventurous enough to want to see, I could show them how they might look in twenty or more years. Many were amused by my sketches, but some began whispering about me being a practitioner of the dark arts and sorcery.

The rumors gained traction the longer I stayed at court. The king died in 1380. I had been at the palace off and on for fourteen years, and I seemed to have stopped aging once I reached my eighteenth birthday. I was twenty-seven now but still looked a good deal younger. The new king was incompetent and, having lost much of the land his father had liberated, started looking for someone to blame. A sorcerer would make the perfect scapegoat.

I had earned a considerable amount of money selling my work and, having developed a strong sense of self-preservation, I left Paris and France altogether before things became too dangerous and I lost my head.

1461

For the next 80 years, I wandered through Europe finding work as a translator, scribe, and sketch artist. Weary of traveling, I reached The Republic of Genoa and decided to stop wandering for a while. Usually, these respites would last for only ten to fifteen years. After five years or so, the people I met when I first arrived would glance at me furtively. They would pose questions in a half-joking, half-serious manner about how I could maintain my youth. At first, I would misdirect the inquiry by making a joke or simply ignoring the question. As time went by, the questions became more accusatory, and I had to move on.

Shortly after arriving in Genoa, I came upon several merchants selling their wares in the open-air market. I was feeling hungry when my eyes locked on the cheese vendor a short distance away. A boy of approximately 10 years of age was tending the stand with his mother. Suddenly, from around the corner came an out-of-control ox pulling a lumber cart. Everything happened so fast, the boy had no chance to escape the collision. Large wheels of cheese and broken pieces of cart scattered everywhere. The boy ended up pinned against the nearby building. After the debris was removed, it became clear he suffered severe injuries. I was one of the first on the scene and administered aid as best I could. The injured boy’s mother grabbed my arm and pleaded with me to save him.

“I will gladly give my life for that of Christoffa’s,” said Susanna.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” I asked.

“Yes, I will give anything to save my son.”

I knew at this moment that the same mystical gift that was keeping me young could also save the boy if I felt he was worthy. There was a price to pay though, his mother would have to donate some of her life force. Susanna was young, only 26, and by looking into her life force, I could tell she would live until her 65th birthday. Christoffa’s life was slowly draining from him. I could use some of his mother’s life to save him, but was he worthy of such a gift? I peered into his inexperienced eyes and, by doing so, into his future. If he lived, he would become a great explorer, and discover a new land.

“Your son will live, but eleven years will cut your life short. Is this what you want, Susanna?”

“Yes, yes, anything for my Christoffa!”

It only took a few seconds, and the transfer was complete. The boy’s eyes became alert and I could tell that any internal injuries he had were already healing. A couple of days later, I revisited the repaired cheese stand where Susanna Colombo and her son were back at work tending to customers. As I approached the stand, the boy immediately ran up to me.

“Thank you for saving me. I will never forget your kindness.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your mother. It was her gift that saved you. I was just the bridge that allowed the gift to be delivered. When you are older, you will achieve great things. People will speak of you with great reverence and they will remember you throughout the ages. The name Christopher Columbus is what people will call you, but you will always remember where you came from, and your mother will be very proud of your accomplishments.

1658

It’s amazing how much ground I could cover in 200 years. I spent 100 years traveling from one Italian city-state to another. I met prominent artists and builders, always careful not to garner any uncomfortable questions or looks. Escaping people’s curiosity had turned into a game for me. Stay for a while, meet new people, and earn enough money to continue my journey. I would help where I could, then leave. By doing some basic math, I worked out that a fifty-year block of time equaled one year of aging for me.

My wanderings finally took me to England. The country was in political unrest. Cromwell and his minions had replaced the monarchy, and neighbors turned on neighbors, suspecting one another of being royalists. The Black Death had ravaged the large city’s population and the overall mood was one of despair. Not a welcoming place to visit.

During the autumn of 1658, a massive storm bore into England, knocking down trees and buildings, and capsizing ships. I was on the outskirts of the village of Woolesthorpe when it became quite clear that I needed to find shelter from the approaching storm. A farmhouse with a large barn was close by so I took refuge there. As I approached the structure, I noticed a boy about 15 years of age jumping from a window and marking his landing spot. I watched with interest as the boy repeated the process multiple times.

Curiosity trumped my need for anonymity, so I approached the boy and introduced myself. He was so engrossed in what I thought was a game that he hardly paid any attention to me.

When I asked him why he was doing the same thing over and over, he replied, “I’m trying to measure the effect of the wind on my trajectory.”

This was no ordinary teenage farm boy. He told me his name was Isaac, and he was sure his mother wouldn’t mind if I took shelter in the barn during the tempest.

The storm finally passed, and it was time for me to be on my way. First, I walked to the house so I could thank the owner for giving me shelter. Isaac’s mother, Hannah, answered the door and I could tell by her expression she had no idea I had stayed in the barn. I told her about my meeting with her son and asked if Isaac was available for me to say goodbye. She called for Isaac and he came to the door, immediately apologizing to his mother for forgetting to tell her about me. I reached into my pack and withdrew a sketch of an older man.

I explained to Isaac, “This is you as an adult. The man in this picture will unlock some of the biggest secrets of the universe. Future scientists will venerate the name Isaac Newton for centuries as the person who discovered gravity. I wish there was more I could give you, but it’s not possible.”

I turned and walked away, leaving Isaac to study his future self. Several weeks later, I boarded a ship for the New World.

The Present

I completed Peter’s sketch of a wild horse running free across the plains. It was actually a memory from the time I had spent with the Cherokee around two hundred years earlier. Of course, Peter didn’t know that, he just liked the drawing. He waved it in front of his great-grandfather then ran off to show it to the house staff, leaving Jack and me alone once again.

“I guess it’s time we cut to the chase,” Jack said. “You may not recognize me, but if you use your special ability, it will all come back to you. Go ahead, don’t just look at me, look into me and you’ll know.”

Keeping up the pretense of ignorance no longer seemed to be a viable option, so I stared into the other man’s soul. His life flashed in my mind like a movie on fast-forward. What I saw was Khaled, Jack’s real name, standing in the temple of Ra, along with several other acolytes. They were sacrificing a young boy to capture his life force. They hoped Ra would grant them, if not immortality, at least an exceptionally long life with the ability to replenish their life force from time to time.

Next, Khaled began traveling from location to location, and from century to century, absorbing some lives and granting extended life to others. The chronicle slowed during 1361 when he was cared for by a 12-year-old boy (me) after being beaten and left for dead. Khaled (Jack) was the stranger who gave me this gift.

A smile stretched across Jack’s withered lips. “So, young one, you now understand who I am. I have helped some and hurt some, depending on whether or not I felt they were worthy. You are the only one I gave the full gift to. Now I need your help once again. As you can see, I’m dying. I fell in love and have heirs, which dissolved my contract with Ra. You can give me my youth back.”

Jack’s request brought back memories of Madeline…

During the battle of New Orleans in 1815, I discovered the limits of my power. I met Denis de Lu Ronde while staying in New Orleans. We became friends, but it was his cousin, Madeline, who fascinated me. He invited me to his plantation and knowing Madeline was going to be there, I eagerly accepted. My elation quickly turned to despair on the first night at Villeré Plantation when the British Expeditionary Force overran the grounds and mortally wounded Madeline. I tried desperately to save her, but without another’s life force, it was impossible. Even my extraordinary abilities had limits…

“I tried restoring someone’s life and without a willing donor I wasn’t able to,” was my reply to Jack. “Even if I could do it, why would I? Besides, viewing our first meeting, I also saw who you resuscitated. Attila the Hun, Vlad the Impaler, Rasputin, Jack the Ripper, and even Hitler, are all people you found worthy. Why would I want to save someone with such poor judgment? I also saw how you became so wealthy. Of course, I’m wealthy too. It’s impossible to live this long and not gain wealth. Unlike you, I didn’t lie, swindle and sanction murder to become rich. Besides, if I were to grant you this request, who would give you their life force?”

“You’ve already met him,” replied Jack. “Peter has a powerful life force, and sacrificing him will please Ra and restore me. I knew I was coming to my end, so I planned for my continuation by having a family. I just needed to find you to complete the process.”

Jack then reached behind his back and brought his hand forward, holding a semiautomatic pistol. “Now let’s go find Peter, shall we?”

I remained seated and smiled at Jack. “Your plan is flawed, Jack,” I said. “I’m the only one who can change your situation, so you can’t shoot me. Nothing you do can make me help you. I’ve lived a long time and if I die tonight, I can honestly say I’ve left the world a better place. Can you say the same, Jack? Peter will grow into a fine man. He will use his inherited wealth to change the world for the better. Oh, one more thing, when I looked into your life force, I saw that tonight, actually this very hour is your last on earth. I’m sure you and Ra, or whoever is in charge now, will have a lot to talk about.”

Rising from my chair, I said to Jack, “I’m going to find Peter now. He’ll need guidance in the coming years.”

As I walked down the hall, I heard the muffled sound of a gunshot. A small smile crossed my lips as I opened the door to Peter’s room; secure knowing that there was no one left alive to threaten his future.