Time Trapped by Richard Ungar

dies.
    â€œThose, my friends,” says Uncle, “are the opening lines to ‘In the Highlands,’ a poem by the Scottish-born writer Robert Louis Stevenson. Not only was he a poet and writer, but also a playwright, composer of music and inveterate traveler. In July and August 1874, aboard a ship called the
Heron,
he cruised these very waters and passed the same islands that we are presently passing.
    â€œBut his travels were not confined to his native Scotland. Stevenson journeyed to many parts of the world. Although for much of his short life he was afflicted by illness, he never stopped writing, traveling and marveling at the world around him.
    â€œIn our own life journeys, we must retain the wonder and curiosity of a Robert Louis Stevenson. We must never let our sense of excitement and adventure wane. And we must teach these same qualities to our new recruits.”
    My eyes wander toward Abbie. She is twirling a loose strand of hair. Her fingers are long and delicate, and I find myself staring at them. She catches me looking and raises her eyebrows slightly. I look away quickly.
    â€œIn 1886,” Uncle continues, “Stevenson wrote a novel that would later be acclaimed as one of the finest adventure stories ever written. In it, a lad awakens bound hand and foot on board a sailing ship. He is, as the book’s title suggests, kidnapped. In today’s final event, each of you will snatch a child between the ages of six and eleven years old for training as a new recruit. You will timeleap with him or her from this ship back to the Compound. It is now eight o’clock local time. You have exactly one half hour to complete the snatch.”
    I can’t do it.
    I might as well pack my bags for the Barrens right now.
    â€œBefore we adjourn, does anyone have any questions?”
    No hands go up.
    â€œAll right, then, we are adjourned. I will see you all back at the Compound with your guests. Your arrival time at the Compound will be October 5, 2061, at 7:30 P.M. ”
    Everyone gets up and starts filing out of the room.
    â€œI can’t do it, Abbie,” I say, once we are out of earshot of the others.
    â€œYes you can,” she says. “You don’t have a choice.”
    â€œI do have a choice. I’ll go back to 1950 or 1980 or, even better, 1880.”
    â€œDon’t you get it?” she says. “If you try to run, he’ll track you down again. If you don’t do what he wants, he’ll send you wherever he sent Raoul. Or worse. Besides, you being a hero isn’t going to make one bit of difference. Lydia or Frank will gladly snatch an extra kid to make up for one you don’t grab.”
    â€œWhat about you?” I ask. “Don’t you have a problem with it?”
    â€œMaybe. But—”
    â€œMaybe? There’s no maybe. I will not kidnap a kid to help Uncle grow his business. I’d rather die,” I say.
    â€œWell, you just might get your wish,” she says before turning and stomping away.

May 24, 1978, 8:07 P.M.
    Aboard the cruise ship Bonnie Prince Charlie
Inner Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland
    I ’ve really done it now. Abbie probably won’t speak to me for a thousand years. But does she really expect that I can march into a cabin and snatch someone’s kid? There’s no way I want anything to do with that.
    I head out to the deck and lean over the rail. It’s too dark to see the water, but I can hear it lapping against the side of the ship. The wind picks up and blows my hair back from my forehead.
    A scuffle behind me catches my attention.
    â€œLeave me alone, you mingin’ bampots!” a voice shouts.
    Good luck with that. Being left alone only works for people who have communicable diseases or eat stinky cheese. Everyone else is fair game for
not
being left alone.
    But the owner of the voice doesn’t appear to get that. He’s cursing up a storm.
    Many of the curses are standard