by J. Richard Jacobs
Phineas T. Farmington’s bank accounts and rather extensive collection of extremely rare, unusually high quality artifacts had been squandered and pilfered by certain predaceous elements of the remaining Farmington family as he approached the end of the line.
By the time old Phineas stepped off the planet, there was not much left to talk about, thus the reading of his final will and testament moved along briskly. That is, it went quickly in terms of actual time. In subjective time it was quite a different matter. The reader, a junior partner in the firm of Twigg, Tyler, and Twimble, spoke in a particularly boring, droning voice that was more mesmerizing than the slow, silent swing of a hypnotist’s pendulum.
The reading was being done in the dark, dingy, and stuffy library of the not-too-long-departed Phineas T. Farmington. The very room where the old man spent his last days on this orb working out the details of what would be his final utterance before being lowered into his final resting place, a hole measuring eight by three by six. The oppressive atmosphere of the room made things all the worse.
“‘…and to my niece, Francine Farmington, I bequeath this magnificent old house and all the wonderful treasures it contains—that is, those that are not specifically excluded herein or have not yet been stolen from me. Although I am aware it is in need of minor repairs, I also know that her imagination, all consuming greed—’”
“What?” Francine said as she stood to lean over the desk and glare at the reader. “He didn’t say that. He couldn’t. You added it. You—”
“No, Miss Farmington, I didn’t. I am merely relaying what Mr. Farmington has written. Now, may I continue?”
“Yes. Yes, damn it. But make it fast. I…I have important things to do.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am sure you do. So, continuing—‘…all consuming greed, and her rather unenerous way—I know, dear, you like to call it the Farmington frugal bent—will bring it back to near its original luster, thereby enhancing the price she will be able to retrieve from its quick sale. Yes, my dear, I know you plan to sell it. You have always planned to sell it and could hardly wait for this day to come. You must, we all know, keep up appearances for your conniving little uptown friends.’”
She was on her feet again and quaking visibly. “That old sonofa—”
“Miss Farmington, please. I am almost finished here.”
“Oh, go ahead. Finish it.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Continuing then—‘…To my somewhat flamboyant, often flippant, and always indolent slug of a nephew, Franklin, I leave my first car. A 1941 Ford station wagon in perfect showroom condition—I believe they are now called Woodies—that he has always coveted.’”
Franklin’s hands went to his cellular phone and he began texting all his friends to tell them about his good fortune. Francine stifled a laugh and squirmed in her chair.
“‘Last, but not least, I bequeath to my errant and adventurous son, Frederick Farmington, my collection of rare—indeed unique—picture postcards. They are worth more than it is possible to imagine, Son.’”
“Whoa. What?” Frederick said. “Um, read that last part again. The part about—”
“Never mind reading it again,” Francine injected. Her voice, as screechy and as nasty as her personality, made Frederick wince. “Uncle Phineas said that you get his collection of picture postcards. I dare say, that was plain enough even for the dull of wit to understand, and I must also say, it is much more than you deserve, Freddy.”
“Yeah, Freddy,” Franklin chimed in. “You’re the one who ran off to study in Europe and left the rotten old man here with all his troubles, not to mention leaving us to care for the doddering old coot—”
“Where did you get this ‘us’ from, Frank?” Francine said. “Seems to me you spent all your time on the couch in front of the TV in your room. I’m the one who had to hire—”
“Okay. Okay. So you took care of it, but, to this day, I don’t know why he kept remembering Freddy with such positive emotion. All the damned day it was Freddy this and Freddy that. Drove us bonkers with all that BS about his super son. You know, the one who disappeared without a trace fifteen years ago.”
“Not without a trace,” Frederick said.
“Yeah, right. It was your dad, you know, who insisted we find you, wherever you had gone, before his will could be read. If it had been up to me, I would have left you in Egypt with your stupid tomb droppings, digging around in the dirt like a starving pig rooting in the mud for scraps. I mean, crap, man.” Franklin had always been one with an elegant turn of word.
Frederick held his tongue and chewed at the inner lining of his cheek. Someday, in some manner, he would find a way to get back at both of them, but words and reactions at the moment seemed a poor replacement for true, sweet revenge. Frederick, patient and cunning, would bide his time and, when the opportunity arose, he would find a fitting end for both of them. Besides, he was the last of the Farmington line and, if they were sent to the dark underworld where they belonged, all they got from his father would revert to him.
Perfect. I will gain on both ends, and it will all be justified. After all, it was they who sucked on the teat of my father’s fortune until it dried up and forced him to sell off most of the valuable relics he had collected over the years. Some of those things hovered in the priceless category and were extremely rare.
Frederick knew his father would not have sold off those things for any other reason than to continue feeding their lustful and lofty lifestyles, and he didn’t buy their story that his father had grown senile and unable to take care of his own accounts. More likely, he had just grown tired of cleaning up after them and gave in to death at only seventy-two just so he could finally be rid of them and their, “It’s what your brother would have wanted for us, you know? Remember your brother, Finnian? Our father?”
After the reading, Frederick retrieved the heavily wrapped box bound in thick, coarse twine, the one containing the postcards, from the desk and left the room without saying a word to either of them.
That’s odd. This box is too heavy to be just ordinary postcards, and it feels like it’s moving of its own accord. Sort of like it’s partly filled with a viscous fluid. I wonder what’s really in it?
Later in the evening, Fred sat at a miniature desk in his room at the Airport Hotel considering the still wrapped box in front of him. He removed from his vest pocket a miniature novelty jackknife he’d gotten at a sundries shop in town. He pulled the box closer. It still felt too heavy. He cut the coarse manilla twine, then peeled back the heavy brown paper covering. There, on top of a beautiful mahogany box, lay a note scrawled in his father’s hand. He took the note and settled back in his chair.
“Hello, Son. I know you are probably thinking you were short-changed by getting only these postcards. Well, you were not, believe me. They are the most valuable thing in this old house and are a source of incredible wealth and adventures beyond your wildest imaginings. I caution you, though, do not open the box until you have read this letter completely, and, please, follow my instructions carefully. It can be a matter of life and death.
“Inside the box there are two hundred cards. Each of them has a different picture on it. On the obverse there is a description of the place and time depicted in the picture. Now, when you handle these cards, be sure to touch only the broad, white border to the right of the picture. Turn it over and read the description you will find there. Be sure to remember everything it says. THIS IS CRITICAL.
“If the description is of a place or time you would like to visit, turn the card back so that the picture is again visible. Now, grasp the card so that your index finger is on the back side and your thumb is inside the picture field. In this way you will retain the card when you go to the place depicted and you will be able to return by repeating the process. If you touch the card in any other way, YOU WILL NOT RETURN. You will be permanently transferred. I know, this sounds like the raving of a senile lunatic, but trust me, it is all terrifyingly real—and terminally dangerous if you desregard any of what I’m telling you.
“Some of the places pictured will require special attire and equipment. Be sure you are properly prepared before you go. If you are not, it could result in an array of horrible consequences…or it could cost you your life. I must repeat my previous statement—this is real. How it is that they can do what they do, I don’t know. Just exercise extreme caution and good judgment at all times.
“I have no doubt that there are some times and places in this box that will be of great interest to you. If they are used wisely and with imagination, they will enhance your career and your fortune at the same time. These cards are the original source of the fortune we have all enjoyed from the earliest time of the Farmington family. If I hadn’t been too ill to use them safely, we wouldn’t be in the condition you now find yourself, Son.
“I wish you the best in your future and it is my hope that these cards will provide your free spirit and sense of adventure—something none of the other dysfunctional, spineless dullards in this family have ever possessed—with a lifetime of fulfillment. Remember, I love you for who you are, not for what I, or anyone else, would like you to be.
“Your father, who has been there and witnessed firsthand the wonders of these cards that I now entrust to you….”
Fred’s overwhelming curiosity forced him to withdraw one of the cards from the box. The picture was like a hologram, but with true color, vibrant and…alive. He could feel movement in the card. He moved it to various positions in his trembling fingers and it responded with a will of its own. He turned it over to read the description.
“Valdricor,” it began. “Fifth planet orbiting a hard binary red giant and white dwarf star system. There is food aplenty on this planet and there are no indigenous lifeforms dangerous to humans. Artifacts of an ancient civilization may be found on Valdricor. The atmosphere is similar to that of Earth in constituents and pressure except that it is difficult to breathe without a filter for ammonia gas. The oxygen content is also a little high, so be sure to breathe a little more shallowly than you are accustomed to on Earth. Protective clothing and breathing apparatus are recommended. You can survive without these precautions, but it will be extremely uncomfortable.”
Fred returned the card to the box, his hands shaking a bit, then picked another at random from somewhere near the middle. He repeated what he had done with the first.
“Be a witness to the battle at Thermopylae from a safe distance and a great vantage point above the cliffs at the pass. Some fine artifacts will be available after the battle. It is recommended that you wear a light, natural wool toga of the period with no adornments so that you will not be mistaken for a wealthy merchant or a combatant. Either of those perceptions will bring you unwanted attention and may result in your death. You might be well advised to carry a shepherd’s staff of the style in use in the region to sharpen the image of harmlessness. Be prepared to leave at the first sign of danger to yourself, although there should be none if you stay where you find yourself after transit and do not attempt to approach the area of conflict until several days after the final battle is fought. You will have ample opportunity to collect….”
“Incredible,” he said to the room as he stared out the window, watching traffic on the freeway beyond the runway. “So this is where Dad got that Spartan sword he sold to the museum. And the cards explain why he never mentioned to anyone where or how he had obtained any of his treasures. There were no donors who made him swear he would remain anonymous as he had often said. How utterly fascinating.”
Fred pondered the possible origin of the cards and concluded that, because they had been in the Farmington family for generations, someone from the future must have either lost them or deliberately left them—perhaps even given them to one of his distant ancestors. Yes, that must have been it, he thought. How else would anyone of the time have known how to handle them, or been able to decipher what would surely have been nothing but cryptic symbols on their backs. And the pictures. Hell, those would have been witchcraft. Sorcery. Surely they had to have been given to the family along with the instructions and explanations. Even then, it was probably a hard sell. But who? Who had given them to the family in the first place?
It sounded ludicrous at first, but it was the only possible way it could have come about, but all that seemed unimportant. He had them, and he was going to use them to the fullest. A plan began to form.
In the morning, Francine Farmington arrived within an hour of his call. When he opened the door for her, she stepped into the room with her usual brusque impatience and immediately shrieked at him.
“This had better be damned good, Freddy. I have a lot of things to do to get that moldy old mausoleum your dad called a house into some kind of condition to make a sale. I don’t have all day, so get on with it—whatever it is.”
“Oh, it is good, Francine. It is exceptionally good, believe me,” Fred said. “Come over here and take a look. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. Nice picture. Um…weird place. How did they get it to look so real and three-dimensional? Hologram?”
“Not a hologram, Francine. I don’t know how they did it. Now, put your palm on the picture and tell me what you feel.”
“Damn it, Freddy, is all this really necessary?”
“Just humor me this once, then we’ll be free of each other forever.”
“Good,” she said with imperious finality, then flopped her hand onto the picture, obviously anxious to go on about her business. At the instant her palm came in contact with the picture, she began fading from view and flicking in and out of focus.
The last Fred saw of her, she was nothing more than a nebulous remnant of her prior self, clawing at her throat and gasping for breath. Then, she was gone.
“Welcome to Valdricor, Francine,” Fred said to the space where Francine Farmington had been. A gurgling chuckle slipped from his throat as he carefully moved the Valdricor card to the side of the desk, then drew another card from the box.
He laid the new card face up in the center of the desk, then settled back into the chair to await Franklin’s arrival. Franklin, always punctual, tapped on the door at precisely 10 o’clock. It was his only saving grace. He wore a bright red shirt with a high, wide collar, garish yellow stretch pants, and strange looking leather sandals with thick, black tire tread soles. An unlit but costly cigar dangled from his thin, stingy lips. He, like his sister, appeared to be in a hurry.
Oh my god, wait til they see this.
“Okay, Freddy, whatever it is, let’s get it over with. I’ve got a super hot babe waiting for me in the parking lot and I don’t want her to cool off. You know how it is—well, in your case, you probably don’t.”
Fred, with some difficulty, suppressed his anger and showed Franklin the card on the desktop, a particularly vibrant picture of the middle of the Neander Valley, verdant and lush, then explained what he wanted Franklin to do. Franklin complied, though with some reluctance and, as his equally easy-to-hate sister had done, vanished. Fred picked up the Neandertal card, slipped it back into the box. Giggling insanely, he closed the lid. He held the box high over his head and danced a little jig.
“Gotcha, by damn. Gotcha both,” he chanted over and over between maniacal laughs.
Dance finished, he broke into a long, continual string of hysterical laughter and cradled the box under his arm. Halfway to the door, Fred realized he had forgotten the Valdricor card. He tossed the box on the bed and returned to the desk, snatched the picture up and stuffed it into his pocket. As he headed back for the bed, the distinctive and pungent odor of ammonia entered his nostrils. He gagged and coughed as he stumbled over the rocks in his path.
The door opened slowly.
“Cleaning service,” she said. As she entered the room, she noticed a mahogany box on the bed. “Oh, what a beautiful box. I wonder what’s in it.”
Just the Other Side of Reality 