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I fell asleep in my lair, brooding over the mess I had made. Am I the worst person ever? Why did I say those things to Ebba? Instead of helping my friend heal her wounds, I cut them open and watched her bleed.
When I went back to my room, Ebba had just woken up and was folding her sleeping bag.
"I feel terrible," I said. "I had no right to say those things to you."
"No need." She held her palm out. "I’ll go back in time and get the Mitu Parim."
"You will?" I wasn’t expecting that.
"Yeah." Crying all night had left her eyes weary. "Y-you were right about me, Echo. I have to be p-pushed to act, but it’s selfish to do this now w-when everyone is in danger. I’m sorry about Doyle too. You’re my friend, and I wanted to protect you."
"Come on, Ebba," I cried. "We’re more than friends. We’re family...I really didn’t mean to hurt you."
"I have s-something for you, Echo." Reaching under the bed, Ebba grabbed an old book with brownish papers. "A late birthday gift."
"The Book of Recreation?" I read the title.
"It’s a t-translation of the original book written by a descendant of the first witch. Vanna helped me find it on the Magic Web."
"This must be rare." I moved my fingers along the vintage, embossed cover. "So precious."
"We thought it’ll help you u-understand your magic and fight Jivaros."
"Oh, I hope so." I crossed my fingers, and Ebba copied me with a grin. She sat at my desk and grabbed a brush that she glided on the surface of a stone, drawing a pentacle in red pigment. Her eyes showed the wonderment of a child coloring Easter eggs.
"What do you have here?" I asked.
"I’m preparing for the spell," she said. "This is my altar."
"A portable altar?" My eyebrows shot up. "This is so cool! How didn’t I think of it before?"
"My mother taught me how to do it, in secret. I always wanted to teach it to my daughter."
"Well..." I sat on the edge of the bed. "Technically, I’m your great-great-great-great-granddaughter. I think. Can you teach me?"
"Sure." Her face lit up.
***
In the living room, we gathered to make a big decision. If Ebba were to go back to the past, who would accompany her?
"Since I have my full powers now, I’m the most suited to protect her," Vanna said.
"Wouldn’t it be better if I go?" I asked. "If something goes wrong, I can use magic."
"No," Vanna replied. "You need to stay here and fight Jivar. We can’t risk you getting stuck in the past."
Kirby raised a hand. "I’m with Vanna on this."
"Then I should be the one to go," Doyle broke in. He had been keeping his distance from me since Joe showed up. "If something happens to me, Jivar loses his vessel. Crisis averted."
"What the hell are you saying?" The thought of Doyle getting trapped in the past infuriated me. His willingness to disappear added fuel to the fire, so I might have acted childishly.
"He’s making a good point, Echo," Vanna said.
"Let’s take votes." Kirby cut the argument short. "Those in favor of Doyle traveling, say ‘aye.’"
"Aye," Vanna and Doyle uttered.
"A-aye," Ebba reluctantly agreed.
"It’s settled then," Kirby said. "Doyle and Ebba will travel to the past while we prepare for the rising day."
I held my breath. Although Doyle was the logical choice, I didn’t want him to go. I was worried he would choose not to come back.
***
"Can I come in?" I stood at the door of Mother’s old room. Kirby gestured for me to enter. The cats meowed when he reached for the bag of dry food to refill their bowls.
"Where’s Doyle?" I asked.
“Balcony.” He pointed at the entrance behind him.
On the wall hung an antique clock that Mother had bought in an auction. I lowered it to show a hidden safe with two locking bolts.
"What’s this?" Kirby asked.
The buttons beeped as I dialed the combination lock, and when the safe opened, I pulled out a hefty gold bar and handed it to him.
"Gold and a secret safe? When did you join the mafia?"
"You know my family is rich." I gave a thoughtless shrug. "This is for Ebba and Doyle to use if they need money. God knows what currency people used three decades ago in Udruonia."
I closed the safe and walked into the balcony to see Doyle, who put his right foot forward then pivoted, whipping his sword. Sweat beaded on his bare chest, and the remains of an old battle scar ran down his left arm.
"Echo." He recoiled when he saw me.
"I should’ve knocked." I dropped my gaze. My cheeks flushed.
"It’s all right." He grabbed his shirt off the railing to cover himself up.
"Doyle." I hesitated before I looked at him. "Why are you avoiding me?"
"I’m not." He looked away.
"Aren’t you? Last night, I wanted to talk, and you completely ditched me."
"I needed space."
"Why? What happened between us?" I inched closer, but he moved away, keeping a distance between us.
Insulted, I turned my back to him. "If you don’t want to talk, then maybe we shouldn’t." My voice hardened. "Get ready. Ebba is waiting for us in the garage."
***
In every time-travel movie, there was one rule: Don’t change the past. But is it possible to go back in time and not change anything? Not a single detail? Ebba’s spell carried a justified risk.
"If we observe the spell, any changes in the past won’t affect our memories," Vanna said, so we gathered in the garage to watch.
Ebba put the amulet on and called out to her grimoire. Holding her portable altar, she chanted a spell in Sumerian. Although I didn’t get most of the words, I could tell something divine was happening before my eyes.
Beneath Ebba’s feet, a rainbow-colored light emerged, swirling and whooshing. It seemed to sink into the ground like a holographic hole or a visual illusion. Ebba claimed a confident posture and waved her hands as though to shape something. To her, time was as stretchy as rubber, as moldable as dough.
It was hard not to lose one’s nerves at the sight of such power. Now that I had witnessed it, I understood Ebba’s fears. To control time was to rule everything. There was nothing more hair-raising than that.
When the time portal opened, Ebba gestured for Doyle to go in first. She turned to us with a peaceful smile before she followed him into the past.
***
Ebba and Doyle were heaved out of the portal and onto the broken asphalt of a dead-end alley. Lying on the ground, they winced at the garbage stench. Trash bounced in the air like leaves blown by the wind.
Doyle helped Ebba stand up. He noticed something stuck in her hair, but when he reached out to remove it, Ebba balked. "W-what are you doing?"
"You have something," he said as he removed a dirty tissue from her braid.
"Oh." She leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. Blood dripped out of her nose.
"You all right?"
"It’s the spell," she said. "I’ll be fine." She pointed at the building behind them. "The store we want is in there. Let’s go."
"We will, but first, breathe." Doyle stretched his palm outward in a calming gesture.
***
Jars of cloves, cardamom, and fragrant spices sat on the counter, with the lids open for the customers to scoop. Nothing seemed odd about the old herb store except for the unwelcoming owner. "Whada you want?" he asked with no greetings. His tall nose caught some of the milk he drank.
"We are looking for a plant," Doyle said. "The Mitu Parim, it is called."
"You with the police?" The man cocked his head.
"No."
"Then get outta here." He swatted his hands. "This plant is banned. I’m not selling it."
"But we heard this is the place to find it," Doyle argued.
"I said get outta here," he bleated the words, but Doyle saw through his feigned confidence; he either had the plant or knew where to get it.
At Doyle’s signal, Ebba closed the door.
"Whadda you—" Before the man spoke, Doyle had pinned him to the wall.
"Tell me where the plant is," he ordered.
"I don’t have it." The man wriggled and gasped. "I swear."
"Do you know where to find it?"
"I c-can’t." He coughed. "I can’t tell you."
"I see." Doyle tightened his grip, letting the man shriek in pain.
"The farm," he uttered with a yelp. "It’s at the farm."
"What farm?" Doyle put him down and gave him a moment to catch his breath.
The man shook. Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. "Go to the station and take the Garbage Train. Get off at stop nine. When you see the sign for ‘Aplea twenty-five,’ walk in the forest till you find a farm. Ask for Brigham. He’ll give you what you want."
"Garbage Train, stop-nine, forest, farm," Ebba repeated, seemingly memorizing the instructions.
"Alpea twenty-five," the man said as he wiped his face in his sleeve.
The Garbage Train? Doyle froze. The route described sounded oddly familiar. His mind drifted to the story he had heard a hundred times before. Could it be? No, no. Impossible.
"Doyle," Ebba’s voice caught his attention. She stood there, waving at him.
"What?"
"We need to go," she said. "The Garbage Train."
"All right." He exhaled. "All right."
***
Riding on the Garbage Train, everything Ebba saw was unpleasant. Two hundred people squeezed in a ninety-passenger vehicle, children snorting heroin, two drunks fighting with knives, and a sicko groping every passing woman. Hadn’t it been for Doyle hurling his body in front of hers, Ebba might’ve been hounded.
The rusty metal gave off an outrageous odor that forced her to cover her nose. By the time they arrived at stop nine, she had become faint. "W-what are you doing?" she shouted when Doyle hoisted her onto his shoulders. "Put me down."
"I promised Echo to protect you," he said.
"Protect me from what? Walking?" She squirmed on his back.
"If your energy is depleted, you can’t use your magic, and we’ll be trapped here. Save your power. Allow me to help."
Ebba moaned. She had no energy to argue. "Just for a few minutes," she said, letting Doyle carry her along the trampled path. "I’ll rest for a few minutes." Time passed as she surrendered to the heaviness in her eyes, and when she finally woke up, they were in the middle of a dim-lit forest.
"Did I fall asleep?" she whispered. A flush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks when she noticed that Doyle had draped her around his back, wrapping his right arm around her right knee and holding her right hand in his left.
"For about an hour." He plodded along the forest, snapping twigs under his feet.
"Oh." Ebba’s mouth had gone dry, and the moisture of the forest hung in her nostrils. With her free hand, she removed tree leaves from her hair. She thought about Doyle and how kind he was. In her life, she had seen little kindness from men. The only man she ever trusted was her pretend father, Rufus, who made her feel safe and cared for—feelings that Doyle stole when he captured her from the boat.
"I’m sorry for what I said yesterday," she said.
"There is no need for apologies."
"No, I need to. I had no right to judge you, Doyle. You and I are alike. We both made mistakes. We both have regrets."
"You were a child, Ebba," Doyle argued. "A child born to an unforgiving world."
Ebba let out a laugh, half amused and half pain-filled. "Do you pray, Doyle?"
"I’ve never tried."
"Witches pray all the time," she said. "When I got married, I prayed for happiness. When I had a child, I prayed for safety. You know what I pray for now?"
"What?"
"A second chance."
"A second chance," Doyle repeated. He sounded like he understood.
***
As Doyle forced his way through the rustling branches, his mind drifted to the past. His missteps and fears, his claimed righteousness, and his biggest regrets all came to him. If he chose to pray for one thing, what would it be?
He found the answer at the edge of the forest, at a hidden farm where a young boy pushed a wagon of crops. He stopped to wipe his sweat with his torn undershirt, and his face darkened with fury.
"Out of all places and times." Doyle came to a halt and put Ebba on the ground.
"Did you say something?" she asked.
"The boy over there," he said. "This is Zaros."
"What?" She jumped up in shock.
"This is where Viessa and Zaros grew up."
"N-no, Doyle. Y-you can’t." Ebba seemed to know what he was thinking. "You can’t change the past."
"I know..." The corners of his mouth tightened.
Doyle and Ebba prowled around the farm. When they asked for Brigham, they were directed to a large tent from which a stench of liquor emerged. A bearded man came out. His purple topcoat enveloped his large silhouette.
"Are you Brigham?" Doyle asked.
The man downed some of his drink, then offered the flask to Doyle.
"There is no need for this." He pushed Brigham’s hand away. "We are looking for a plant called Mitu Parim."
"Got money?" Brigham slurred his words out with a hiccup.
"Better." Ebba showed him the gold bar.
"Gold?" The drunk man guffawed and rocked to the sides. "Where do you people come from?"
"You don’t want it?" Ebba asked.
"No, no. I take it." He tried to yank it from her, but Doyle caught his hand. The two men locked eyes before Brigham withdrew.
"I get the plant." He waddled into his tent and returned a moment later with a bag of seeds. "Mitu Parim seeds. This is all I can give you."
Ebba took the seed and checked them before giving Brigham his gold.
"Sir Brigham. Help," a female voice called. Dashing towards them was a woman with a dirty dress and a scarf wrapped around her head. In her arms, she carried a little girl who had lost all signs of vitality. "The girl fell again. Second time today."
"Take her to her brother." Brigham gave a dismissive wave and covered his mouth to stop a hiccup.
"But you have her drug," the woman said.
"No money for drug," he yelled.
"But the girl—"
"I ain’t got money for this useless brat, Dorothea. Take her to her brother."
"Sir, please," Dorothea begged, but Brigham turned his back on her.
Doyle gaped, his jaws stiffened, and his hands dropped to his sides. Ebba tugged on his arm and said something, but he didn’t hear her. His eyes were fixated on the ailing little girl, his oldest friend and companion, the woman he once loved but then murdered, the cause of his sorrow and remorse.
"No," Ebba screamed when Doyle launched himself at Brigham, bashing his bearded face. Brigham fell back and rebounded on the cloth of his tent.
"You outta your mind?" As Brigham got to his feet, Doyle grabbed him from his clothes and struck him in the jaw and the throat.
The large man collapsed.
"Good God," Dorothea uttered.
"Doyle," Ebba cried out.
"Where is the girl’s medicine?" Doyle asked.
"I ain’t got it," Brigham said, then growled and spat blood when Doyle kicked him in the guts.
"How could you do this to a child?" Doyle released his anger in another kick. He turned to Dorothea and took Viessa, saying, "She needs a hospital."
"You don’t deserve this," Ebba said as she took the gold bar back from the dazed drunk.
***
"W-what did we d-do?" Ebba lumbered behind Doyle. They had barely entered the forest, and at any moment, Brigham’s men could catch up.
"You did nothing." Doyle stopped. "I’m responsible for this, Ebba. Go back to the future, and I’ll take Viessa to the hospital."
"I c-can’t leave you in this place," she said. "There’s no h-hospital here."
"I’ll find one."
Although he acted confident, Ebba could tell he was terrified. She shook her head and gasped. Placing her hand on Viessa’s cheeks, she sensed the lifelessness in her body. "Her brain hurts," she said. "She had two attacks today. The third one will cause damage doctors can’t fix." She groaned. "What were you thinking, Doyle?" she asked, knowing the answer.
To save one child, Doyle had defied the laws of nature. By altering the past, he put the future at risk. There was no excuse for that, but as Ebba watched the innocent child in his arms, she understood his motive. Her heart opened, and her mind thought back to the child whom she never saw age.
"How much time?" Doyle asked. "Before the third attack?" Doyle asked.
"She doesn’t have time," Ebba toyed with the amulet around her neck. "I do."
A white glow flashed in the sky, engulfing the entire forest.
Time had always been subject to our senses, more of a perception than a reality. Ebba’s magic manipulated the experience of time for herself and Doyle. The rustling tree leaves slowed down to the point where they made no noise. The billowing clouds slackened, appearing as a series of pictures projected on the sky. Like Sonic the Hedgehog, Doyle and Ebba sped up, crossing the forest in a minute.
When they got to the station, Ebba rewound time to reverse the direction of the train. A man sitting near her had a drink in his hand, which came out of his mouth and back into the bottle.
"This is enough, Ebba," Doyle shouted. "You’re hurting yourself."
"She’s just a little girl." Ebba placed her hand on her chest, striving to breathe in the stifling vehicle. "A little girl without a mother."
The Garbage Train took Doyle and Ebba back to the city, where they found a hospital for Viessa. They stood in the crowded waiting area with squeaky chairs and peeled wall paint. A questionable tang lingered in the air—spoiled food? Vomit? They couldn’t tell.
"We’ve stabilized the girl’s condition," the doctor said. "But I’m afraid we can’t do anything more. We don’t have the equipment."
"Can we move her to a better hospital?" Doyle asked.
"You’re not from here, are you?" The doctor snickered. "Fill out the forms at the reception so you can take your daughter home."
The doctor walked away.
"This can’t be it." Doyle balled his fists. "We have come so far."
Resting her back against the wall, Ebba wrapped her arms around herself. "I wish we could take her to the future, but her body is too weak. She’ll die in the portal."
"Then I’ll stay with her," Doyle said. "I’ll find somewhere safe where she can grow up healthy and sane."
"Doyle, you ca—"
"I have to."
Doyle accompanied Ebba to the dingy alley where their adventure began. She pulled out her portable altar, preparing for the ride home.
"Send my apologies to Echo," Doyle spoke in a monotonic tone. "I shouldn't have meddled with the past, but you understand, right?"
Ebba gave an assuring nod. "Sure you want to stay? You’ll never see your family again. You’ll never see Echo again."
"Perhaps it’s best for us to stay apart," he said.
"Bad liar!" Ebba tittered.
"Viessa needs me." His voice broke, unable to conceal his feelings. "I have to make things right, to keep her away from Jivar and Zaros."
"M-maybe." Ebba hesitated. She glanced at the altar in her hand, and her chest heaved. "Maybe I can do this."
"What?"
"I can do this." Her face glowed once her thoughts and emotions fell in line. "Doyle... You had your second chance, and you took it. You saved Viessa when she needed to be saved, but now—"
"Ebba, what’re you saying?" He looked at her as though she had lost her mind, but his expression softened when her eyes welled up.
"I’m saying you’re a man of war...a hero. But the girl needs a mother."
Doyle stood still, his eyes widening.
"She can be my second chance, Doyle," Ebba said. "And I can be hers."
Ebba and Doyle talked. While he weighed the options through reason, she only asked her heart. All she wanted was a second chance to live a normal life, a chance to make it up to the child she had let down. Although Ebba’s daughter was long gone, Viessa was alive, and more than anything, she needed a mother.
A decision was made, and at the hospital, Ebba filled out the discharge papers. Her face beamed as she reflected on the surprises of the day and the unexpected vicissitudes of life. With a shaky hand, she wrote ‘Viessa Blackwood’ in the name record, adding a new member to the family. At last, her prayers were met.
***
Twenty-six years later, Kirby, Vanna, and I sat in my lair, drinking hot chocolate. "Imagine!" Kirby exclaimed. "If something goes wrong and Doyle and Ebba get stuck in the past. When we see them again, they’ll be in their fifties. I’ll have to call Doyle ‘sir’."
"What are you saying, Kirby?" I cried out.
"I bet it’d still work out between you two." He scratched his head. "Love conquers all."
"Not if he found someone else," I said with a pout. "It’s not like he’d be cheating cause we’re not together."
"What if he married Ebba?" His question made me wince. "Would their kids be your cousins or your aunts?"
"Good grief." I smacked my head at the table. "Why’re you doing this to me, Kirby?"
"You two are strange." Vanna blinked twice and took a sip of her drink.
"They’re back," I yelled when a noise came from upstairs. We followed it to the kitchen, where the aroma of coffee wafted to our noses.
"Tara?" I gawked when I saw my sister using the grinder. "You’re back?"
"When did I ever leave?" She gave a casual shrug. "Heidi got me a new blend of coffee. Do you want to try it?"
"I-I’m fine." I pressed my fingers to my temples. Tara is here. This means something has changed in the past, and the entire timeline of events is altered.
"You know it’s good manners to greet the guests, don’t you?" Heidi sat at the kitchen table, dressed in black. Her eyes were puffy. She had been crying.
"Heidi, I didn’t see you there," I said.
"Be nice," Tara whispered, elbowing me in the abdomen. "Today is her mother’s death day. It’s been a year already."
"Wh-what?" I rested my hand on the counter so I wouldn’t faint. Heidi’s mom isn’t dead. Zaros saved her from cancer, didn’t he? She never died.
All magic had consequences, some more vigorous than others. A simple change in the past triggered a butterfly effect that transformed the present as we knew it. People meant to live died, and people meant to die were given a second chance in life.
This can’t be.
"I’m really starting to hate spring," Tara told Heidi. "While the flowers bloom, our loved ones are taken away. Last year, it was your mom. This year, Grandpa. Not to mention your uncles."
"My ‘uncles’ had it coming," Hiedi said. "They knew what they signed up for when they got involved with Jivar. What happened on that cruise was terrible. Your grandfather and three others lost their lives."
Three others? In the old timeline, two people died at my birthday party, Grandpa and a friend of Mayan.
"If it weren’t for Echo, everyone on that ship would’ve died," she added. "I’m grateful you were there on time."
What ship? I squeezed my brain thinking but couldn’t connect the pieces. All I knew was that, somehow, we ended up with more deaths.
