The Time Keepers

“Now, sir. You have to understand our predicament,” the elderly English gentleman says to Wenton as he sits in the middle of their living room, a crowd of fiends surrounding him, observing him as if he were a specimen.

Wenton is immediately regretting listening to the anonymous tip. That a journalistic treat (far greater than taking pictures of battleships on some tropic isle) awaited him at some quaint suburban house in Massachusetts.

This motley crew of misfits is no treat. A wild-haired, wild-eyed ginger named Holden, danger seeping from his pores. A blonde, full-skirted housewife with beyond straight-laced features journeying into the realm of psychopath -- her name is Infiniti. A jet black haired beauty with judging eyes betraying the demurity of her baby blue pencil dress. A musclebound American, named Linc -- a possessive arm draped over her.    

The dapper English gentleman stands at the center of the group. He appears to be the leader. He goes by Royce.

“I mean, what would you do if you found a complete stranger hiding in your closet?” Royce continues. “Certainly, you wouldn’t just let him go on his merry way.”

Wenton does not answer just yet fearing anything he says can be used against him.

Royce, expecting this silence, smiles kindly, and continues the lecture, “Now, if you don’t mind, just sit tight and the six of us are going to figure out what to do with you.” 

The band of rogues disperses to separate corners of the room to reveal Ford, another American with wild eyes and excessive arm hair who has been standing in a far corner by himself. He knows what he wants to do, “We should kill him!”

“Your solution to every conundrum is killing people. ‘Holden has a hangnail. Kill him.’ “

Holden has taken up a spot to the right of Wenton. He lounges picking his fingernails with a switchblade, “Does Ford ever need a reason?”

“Regardless, we did not get our positions in this clandestine organization through brashness,” Royce declares.

“Speak for yourself,” Ford snaps back.

“Ford! We got our positions through a deep understanding of butterfly effects. Cosmic string theory and through a penchant for critical thinking.”

“Ok I critically thought this through,” Ford pops up from his chair and bursts past Royce extending his thick forearm to point a gun right at Wenton, “Let's kill him.” 

Wenton begins to shiver, presses his back to the wall as if he could sink right through if he presses hard enough, covers his face with his hands. All manner of nonsensical things to protect himself from the oncoming blow.

“No, wait, I am sure there is a valiant explanation for why this man is in our closet. Isn't there, uh --”

Wenton’s mind is in a whir as he rushes to catch up with the events of the day. The mysterious caller who told him about a secret meeting 

“Marcel Perrot,” he says and it instantly sounds silly on his tongue.

The overly-gracious way Royce enunciates the pseudonym doubly makes Wenton second-guess his decision to lie.

“Marcel Perrot!” he says, putting on a perfect French accent.

It’s almost as if he was waiting his whole life to say it.

“Marcel Perrot is a guest in our house and would never lie to us,” Royce continues to Ford.

Royce’s infectious calm and optimistic nature juxtaposes perfectly with the volatility in Ford’s fierce eyes. 

Ford ruminates for a few moments before barking into the air, “I hereby call for a Plebiscite of the Counsel!”

Wenton is lost, “What?”

Royce places a fatherly hand on his shoulder, “It’s a fancy phrase for taking a vote.”

Royce turns his attention back to his friendly foe and says rather ironically, “Must you be so dramatic, Ford.”

“What’s going on?”

Royce turns to Wenton and the flamboyant way he explains the event under the cloak of his strong British accent makes the whole thing sound whimsical. 

“We’re going to play a little game, Marcel,” he says. “It’s called Spare or Kill.”

Wenton already doesn’t like this game. Royce notices his dismay.

“Now, now, now. You haven’t heard the rules yet. All we do is go around the room and ask people in our crew whether they want to spare or kill you.”

It does nothing to calm Wenton’s nerves.

Royce tries once more. 

“Calm down. Calm down,” he says gently as if trying to calm a child. “Look around at this room. Do any of these people look like they would want to do harm to you.”

It looks like a gallery of rogues. Nonetheless, Royce begins the game.

“I’ll start the game,” Royce says. “We’ll go around the room counterclockwise, saying Spare or Kill. I say Spare.”

Ford says, “Kill.”

Lincoln is in another world, but shrugs, “Spare.”

Mercedes is smoking a cigarette and says, “Come back to me.”

Infiniti says, “Spare.”

Holden says, “Kill.”

Mercedes is stressed but makes up her mind, “I say kill.”

“Ah,” Royce declares. “That’s three spars and three kills. A tie.”

“A tie? What’s a tie?”

“A tie means that the leader of our group deliberates for ten minutes before making a decision. And do you know who the leader is, Marcel?”

Wenton -- or Marcel -- just blinks.

“He is me. That means you’ll get a fair and equal trial. However, I cannot speak the same of the person who sent you here.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Now, Marcel,” there is suddenly sort of an edge to Royce’s voice as he says, “let’s not pry. That’s private business. Let’s just say in our line of work, it’s very frowned upon to divulge our secrets.”

Wenton starts to wonder who he may have endangered by getting caught. He knows the voice that called him -- though disguised -- was that of a man. It was not Royce and it couldn’t be Ford. Ford seems to hate his guts already. Before Wenton can decide, Royce has moved on to diverting his guest's attention.

“If my calculations are correct, it’s 1941, and lust for pretty women is in full swing,” Royce says. “So allow these two lovely ladies to give you a tour.”

Mercedes folds her arms like a child, “Do we have to?”

Infiniti just shrugs. She always goes along with Mercedes. Nonetheless, they are convinced and they take Wenton on the tour.

Wenton must admit that Infiniti’s wispy frame does attract him. Mercedes, however, with full black hair and curvaceous features are somewhat of a turnoff for Wenton and he doesn’t know why. Still, having cheated death one too many times, he welcomes the tour. When all is done, he returns to the living room and Royce has a triumphant smile on his face.

“Marcel, we worked out the problem and made our decision. And you’ll be happy to know that our friend Ford was quite mistaken.”

Wenton sighs in relief at being in the kindly hands of Royce. He makes a vow never to listen to anonymous tips about sneaking into random suburban houses ever again. Royce appears to be commemorating Wenton’s freedom by giving him a token of appreciation.

“Now where is it?” Royce is fumbling through his pockets as if looking for a pen or an after-dinner mint. “It’s here somewhere.”

He still can’t find it until, “Ah-ha!”

Royce pulls out a humongous handgun and points it right in Wenton’s face.

“But -- but -- but,” Wenton stutters. “You said you disagreed with Ford! You said he got things wrong!”

“Yes, in math, if you don’t take the time to show your work, you’ll always get the answer wrong. But, unlike Ford, I did the math and it seems you lied to us, Marcel -- or should I say Not Marcel. I checked our entire database of humans in the year 1941 and there is no such thing as a Marcel Perrot residing in the States at this date and time. For all intents and purposes, he is a fiction and you are a temporal impossibility. If I am not making myself clear, you lied to us Mister Un-Marcel-Perrot. And where I come from the best solution for a lie is a good old fashioned bullet to the face.”

Wenton pleads. Mercedes screams. Royce hears neither. 

Not a care in the world, as if dancing on daisies and tulips, he pulls the trigger.

“BANG!”

Wenton only sees darkness and hears a sudden silence. It lasts for an elongated second before Wenton realizes the darkness is merely his own eyes being closed tightly. He opens them to see the silence is the throng of strangers staring at both him and Royce in befuddlement. 

Royce smiles at Wenton and places the gun to his own head, pulling the trigger several times with a goofy smile on his face -- CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK -- The gun was empty the whole time.

Then he turns to Mercedes. A mischievous smile on his face, he says, “You should have seen your face.”

He laughs like he’s the only one in the room and there aren’t a bunch of people staring at him like he’s gone mad. But once levity sets in and eyes begin to roll, Wenton realizes this is how Royce regularly operates.

“You know the rules about affecting your own future, Mercedes,” Royce says, pacing away. “No betting on sports or the market, no souvenirs, and no saving loved ones.”

“Oh, we found your true identity, Mr. Wenton Forrestor, and it seems like your anonymous little friend was none other than Lincoln, the longtime boyfriend of our lovely Mercedes.”

Mercedes is half-mad and half-relieved as she asks, “When did you know?”

“For all your brooding, you never had a taste for blood, Mercedes. Only when you knew it would end in a tie and fall on me, did you say ‘Kill’. Only you never thought I would go through with it despite you breaking the primary law of the Timekeepers.”

“Yes, I can explain I --”

“Tut, tut. It’s fine. I broke a law or two when I was young. Besides, I ran it through the Kipler Theorem and it turns out letting Wenton live will not bring about the apocalypse. Turns out Wenton is an insignificant cog on a machine that makes hardly any difference in the great expanse of time.”

“Thanks?” says Wenton, a little hurt.

“Oh, take no offense. Most people if taken from history, wouldn’t leave a mark. Just thank your lucky stars you’re no Hitler.”

“Are you going to explain what’s going on?” Wenton goes on.

“We, dear Wenton, are the Timekeepers. We have set up time portholes at various stations throughout history making sure no anomalies occur setting of an apocalyptic event in the future. We are not supposed to use the time portholes for personal gain, but it seems your great-granddaughter wanted to spare your life for the chance to visit.” 

Wenton looks to Mercedes who is lowering her head in shame.

“Spare my life from what?”

“You were set to go take pictures in Hawaii, correct?”

“Yes, Pearl Harbor. Why?”

Royce thinks better of giving the answer.

“Nothing. Just read the news tomorrow and you will know. Otherwise, you can be on your way.”

“But how can I go on knowing what you just told me?” Wenton asks.

“You must go on, Wenton," he says matter-of-factly. Then he tilts head observantly realizing Wenton needs more.

"Yes," Royce says, "most men leave small ripples on the ocean of time. But the size of the ripple should not determine its importance. A picture of a sunset. A poem. Your great-granddaughters smile. These are ripples that, alone, will not conquer nations or produce scientific advancements. But together, Wenton, they are more valuable than gold.”

So Wenton goes on living a life that wasn't supposed to be. He lives for close to a century before his adult granddaughter brings a lovely black-haired child into his room.

Cradling the child in his hands, he smiles and says, "It appears we meet again."