Time Slip

     “Meepits!” she shouted. The colourful concoction soaked into her banana peel, dying it purple, blue, and pink. After cleaning up the spill, she picked up the stem top and threw it towards the rubbish bin. “So much for that one…”

      The centre of the banana hit the rim and bounced just as a rain-soaked customer sprinted inside.

     “Hi, Kayla!” the Blue Lupe started, “Sorry to come on such short notice, but I—”

     “Jeran!” Kayla cried, but it was too late. He stepped directly on the fruit and soared right into the air. But before she could help…

     He disappeared.

     She let out a loud gasp. “Sweet Mortogs on a bun! Lisha’s not going to be happy…”

     ~x~

     “Yaaaaa ow!” Jeran landed with a hard thud on the wooden floor as wet fur clung to his face. To make matters worse, his tail hurt like he dropped a bookcase on it… and with how heavy his metal armour and body weighed together, he might as well have.

     “Oh my gosh, are you okay?!”

     It took a few seconds for his tail to stop stinging long enough to reply. “Yeah… I’ll head over to Velm later today and,” he grunted as he sat up, “ask for a healing spell.”

     A red hand reached out towards him. “I got you, Sir. Please, take my hand.”

     “Sir?” he forced a laugh, then grabbed hold. She hoisted him up with a pull. “I’m not mad, Kayla. I know it was an accident.”

     “Uhh…” the Red Zafara hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay, Sir?”

     It was hard not to scoff. “It’s fine, Kayla, really. You don’t have to speak to me so formall…y.” He took a good look at the Neopian who offered help and… it wasn’t Kayla. She looked a little like her, muscularly built with curlier, red-orange hair. “Wait. Who are you?”

     The Zafara had since taken a few steps back; her nose was quivering. Now that he took the time to look around, the room looked a little like the store he was just in. It had the same dimensions, sure, but all the shelves were arranged differently, with some of them containing artefacts that gave off unnatural, iridescent light. Another contraption seemed to be blowing cool air in his direction. And outside… it was sunny, a large departure from his sopping wet fur.

     “I’m the potion master here, Kayla… didn’t you call me by name before?” She said, then shook her head. “But wait, wait, back up. How did you get here? Why are you so wet? And…” her gaze travelled to his waist, “is that a real sword?”

     “I…” A real sword? What kind of question was that? “I’d like to know how I got here, too. I wonder if—oh!” He slapped his forehead. “It was the banana!”

     The Zafara stared at him in stunned silence. In response, he let out a nervous chuckle.

      “Uhh, hey, that probably sounded really odd. I’m sorry about scaring you, Kayla.”

      “Are you like… a method actor?” Her face twisted with concern. “You don’t have to be in character right now—there are no customers around.”

     He squinted. “A… you know what? Sure. I’m one of those.”

     “Yeah? What’s your real name, then? I’m Sue.”

     Jeran bit his lip. “Uh, hey… is Lisha around?” She’d know what to do. He hoped.

     “At the main castle museum—you’re at the potion shop and ticket office.” When Jeran’s eyebrows rose in alarm, she added, “You work for another museum, right? That reproduction armour alone must have cost a fortune to make.”

     “I—” Given Kayla’s track record, Jeran hoped that he wasn’t stuck in another potion-induced nightmare. One of those was enough. “Yeah, I do.”

     “Phew, that’s a relief.” Her shoulders relaxed. “I thought you might be completely off your gourd, no offense.”

     He sighed. “None taken.”

     “Oh, hey. You fell on your tail, right? Does that hurt?”

     “A bit, yeah.”

     “Want a healing potion?”

     “Actually… that would be great, thanks.”

     “Got you covered.” Kayla smiled as she picked through some potions by the counter, including a sample jar of “Kayla’s Best Brew,” which she handed to him. “You’re lucky that the museum trains us to emulate the people we play—potion craft, magic lessons, combat training, and all. Really makes us a one-of-a-kind destination.” She let out a thoughtful hum. “Surprised to see someone else doing that with you. Must be a well-funded place.”

     Jeran drank the grape-flavoured potion with a shrug. “I guess?”

     There was a large metal contraption and a sign beside it that read ‘ticket prices.’ Kayla hit a few buttons on the contraption and handed him a slip of paper: “Meridell Castle Museum: one complimentary adult admission, educator.”

     “Do you know how to get there?”

     He resisted the urge to say “Of course I do” and left the shop with little more than a polite bow and a “Yes, thank you.”

     The mid-day sun shone brightly into his eyes—he couldn’t help but shield them. Sounds of hustle and bustle echoed all around, including some that sounded almost mechanical. He blinked back the light and did a double-take. Large, glass-covered buildings towered above the smattering of recognizable homes and shops. Even the cobblestone roads and brick-lined paths looked different, sleeker and uniform.

     “This has to be a dream…” he pinched himself as hard as he could and winced. “A terrible, terrible dream…”

     Some of the old trails he knew led to dead ends. There were no familiar faces in the crowd, not one friend or ally to call upon; he was well and truly alone.

     Ignoring strangers’ confused mutterings on his “cool” and “retro” look, he continued to plough through the narrow streets, face forward. The way everyone dressed, he thought, it almost looked like what Lisha and her friends wore when they—

     “…Came to Meridell from the future.” The realization hit him like a Rock Petpet to the face. He slid his back against a lantern post somehow lit without oil and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Was this really Meridell? From what Lisha told him before, in her time, all that was left of Meridell were the remains of a ruined city. Now, given how lively it looked… It was hard not to feel a sense of pride—their actions made this new future possible, after all—but it didn’t make his situation less difficult to accept.

     Jeran let out a soft sigh. “This must be how Serian felt when he first came to Meridell.” And how Jeran felt as a squire in a land where no one could possibly understand him: a future transplant in a Medieval world. “Hopefully there’s an easy way to fix this. If not…” he dared not finish that thought. There had to be a way home.

     Even from afar, the castle looked much the same, albeit a bit more worn than his last trip there… hundreds of years before. The entire structure was ringed by a tall metal fence and a few signs with the words “for ticketed visitors only.” Two Neopians wearing cheap imitation guard uniforms stood by the front gate.

     Seeing him approach, a pink-furred Kougra called, “Good day, Sir! Here for the museum?”

     “Yes. I’m… an educator.” He hoped that was the word Kayla had used.

     “Is that so? I really like your costu—”

     “Thanks.” He flashed the ticket as he cut her off.

     She pressed the ticket with a hole punch. “Come to think of it, our Rohane is doing a program with someone today—is that you?”

     Jeran pulled back in confusion. “Rohane’s here, too?”

     “Uhh…” she spared a glance at her co-worker, who shrugged. “Yeah. Just head on inside—they’ll set you up.”

     “Right, thank you for your help.”

     Despite the familiarity, being inside the castle still brought a chill up his spine. There were swords, axes, spears, and armour, all encased behind glass-like show pieces. Some of them had placards about past battles, of owners, donors and families. Names of nobles flashed by in quick succession, many familiar. Rustboro, Silverleaf, Vermillion, Goldshield. But nothing could prepare him for the small, unassuming display along the main wall.

     It was an especially worn sword, one that if not for its association, would never have been placed in such a place of honour.

     ‘“Father’s Sword,” donated by Sir Rohane of Meridell.’

     Jeran read the name until it hardly looked like a word anymore. Just beyond it was a short, framed passage written by the knight himself.

     “This sword served my father in war and peace, as it served me during my adventures. I can’t help but think that my father’s spirit watched over me when I fought Terask; without him, that fight would have been my last. Let it serve as a reminder of a great Blumaroo, one whose kindness and bravery is missed by many, and inspire generations of knights to come.”

     A small placard sat below the sword: it showed a timeline. The first he recognized as the year Rohane was born. The second… It felt like every drop of blood drained from Jeran’s face. Even though he knew Rohane was still alive and well in his time, seeing that second number… he rubbed his eyes until they hurt. There was no way this morning would be the last time he would see his comrade alive. There was just… no way. A flash of memories played through in his mind of their many adventures, their squabbles, their triumphs. All of those fights over little things… it seemed so silly now that a sword and words were all that remained.

     What if nobody could bring him home? What then? Would he be left without friends or family in a world that treated his life’s work as mere amusement?

     “Hey there! You lost?”

     Jeran quickly composed himself. Crying in front of a display wouldn’t help, not right now.

     Turning around, he faced a Neopian who was the spitting image of the squire, Morris, if the Quiggle had grown up to be a knight 10 years his senior.

     “I’m…” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I’m looking for someone, Morris.”

     “Is it Rohane?”

     “Yes,” he answered it too quickly, thinking about that second number again, then shook his head. “Actually, I—”

     “Oh! You’re Jeran, right? You sure look the part!”

     He had to keep from shouting, “Because I am Jeran!” Instead, he bit his tongue and simply answered, “Yes, I am.”

     “You’re a bit early, but I’m sure they won’t mind.” The Quiggle picked up a clipboard with a list of activities and pointed to one that started at 1pmNST. “It’s in the training grounds today. Want to come with me?”

     “Sure,” Jeran sighed. “Lead on.” Playing along with the role would at least help him gain information later.

     Even the practice grounds looked different. Large, metal risers in the field and a fraction of the weapons—wooden or fake weapons, at that—remained. Someone in brilliant golden armour, helm and all, was speaking to a large crowd of Neopians, a White Blumaroo that looked just like—

     “Rohane?”

     There was no way this could be his Rohane, right?

     “Ah, here’s Sir Borodere now!”

     Jeran winced. Nope. Definitely not him. Half the time, he barely got the willful Blumaroo to call him by any title, let alone his last name. This was just another lie.

     “So, Sir Borodere, I was just telling these good Neopians how my drill plans are superior to yours,” he said it with a wink. “Care to tell them more?”

     Jeran’s expression soured. The last thing he needed was a reminder of what was gone. “That sounds like insubordination.”

     Members of the audience laughed.

     “I was thinking,” the golden armoured Blumaroo continued, “that we could settle this over a quick duel?”

     There was no hint of humour in Jeran’s voice. “That would hardly be a contest at all.”

     “Oh,” Rohane took a proper battle stance and drew a blunted blade. “You should know by now that isn’t the case. Come on,” he waved him forward, “give it your best shot. I’m ready.”

     “No, you’re not.” Returning the posture in kind, Jeran’s brow furrowed. “You haven’t fought in two wars—you don’t know what it’s like to actually fight!”

     There was a split second between when Jeran charged forward and the blades clashed. Rohane let out a surprised gasp, but parried well, even added volleys of his own. Clang! Clang! Clang! Metal rang as the two fought with skilful swordplay. Audience members watched transfixed, one let out an awed “woah” when Rohane slid away inches from the sword’s reach.

     Over time, the Blumaroo’s stamina waned. After a near-hit to his armour, he vaulted back in a somersault that dislodged the helm off his head. Shoulder-length red hair cascaded in curled ringlets as he fell to one knee and gasped for breath. The helm, on the other hand, bounced a few feet away. “I… I yield. You… your plans… win out… this time.”

     The audience burst into raucous applause, one even exclaimed, “This is the best program I’ve ever seen!”

     Jeran sheathed his weapon and offered a hand, which the Blumaroo gratefully took, before the latter turned towards the audience. “We will take… a short break… while I…” Rohane coughed. “Get some water.”

     While the swordsman chugged nearly a gallon’s worth of water on the other side of the field, Jeran crossed his arms, gaze falling upon the Blumaroo’s sheathed blade. “You fight well.”

     He wiped his snout and let out a loud exhale. “If I didn’t, I’d be doing a disservice to my ancestors.”

     “Your… ancestors?”

     “My ten-times-great-grandfather was Reuben—Sir Rohane’s brother—and I’m his proud descendent, Rohuna. But just so you know, despite my alto voice,” she stuck out her tongue, “I’m a girl.”

     The world seemed to spin a bit. “Ten-times? That much time has passed?”

     “Uh, yes?”

     Jeran shook his head. “I guess that would explain the glowing streetlamps and mobility contraptions.”

     She laughed out loud. “You’re pretty odd, you know that?”

     Jeran glowered. “Gee, thanks.”

     “And you’re also the first one to beat me in a duel—which, jeez, man. Way to go off script. Who trained you, anyway?”

      “It’s…” Jeran rubbed the back of his neck, “kind of a funny story, really…”

     “Is that so?” She hummed thoughtfully. “You from around here?”

     “You could… say that, yeah.”

     “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look a lot like—”

     Jeran waved his hands in panic. “That’s enough history for one day, thanks.” Before the baffled Blumaroo could retort, he added, “Speaking of, do you happen to know where Lisha is? I have a few questions for her.”

      Rohuna picked up the helm and placed it on her head, covering her red locks once more. “She’d be in the museum archives, but uhh,” she spared a withering glance at the eager crowd, “aren’t you, ya know, going to help me finish this program first?”

     “You’ve got this covered,” Jeran said, patting her on the shoulder. “You’re related to the most stubborn, insubordinate meathead in Meridell, after all.”

     She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Gosh, you really do have Jeran’s character down—got his insults memorized and everything.”

     “You could say that.” Turning away with a wave, he couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks for the duel, Rohuna. Reuben would be proud to call you his descendent.”

     “Thanks a lot…” The crowd’s cheers carried over the field. Hearing this, Rohuna exhaled, slowly making her way back. Her grip tightened around the blunted sword’s hilt. “But next time, Sir Borodere, I’m going to win.”

     ~x~

     Jeran had to admit, Lisha’s library always impressed him. Before, it rivalled the largest in Brightvale, and now… Towers of records and archives spread in every direction. Books magically floated between shelves as if they had a mind of their own. Overwhelming was an understatement—it looked like a city of books with volumes matching the population of Brightvale and Meridell combined.

     “Can I help you?”

     Jeran jerked back. A short, spectacled Yellow Aisha in a blue mage robe appeared within feet of him, a pile of books in her hands. Unlike the others, she looked a good deal older, albeit with an almost eerie resemblance to his sister. With a grunt, she placed the pile on a nearby table.

     “You’re Lisha, right?”

     She adjusted her glasses with a grin; her eyes reflected a red sheen. “Speaking. Got a question for me about the archives or about magic?”

     “Uhhh…” he let out a nervous chuckle. “A bit of both, actually. I know this is going to sound crazy, but please, hear me out.”

     She laughed.

      “In a land where ghosts, wraiths, curses, floating cities, and possession exist,” Lisha lifted a hand and counted each one by one on her fingers, “it’s going to take a lot to sound crazy.”

     “If you’re sure.” Jeran took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes: my name is Jeran Borodere. I time-traveled from the past and am currently stuck here. I figured if you’re anything like my brainiac sister, you’d have an idea to get me out of this jam.”

     For a few seconds, Jeran held his breath as Lisha stared passed him. He grimaced—perhaps this was too crazy for—

     “Huh. Didn’t expect that one.” She tapped her finger to her chin, then spoke a few words that made her hands glow. A large, old tome appeared and opened directly to a passage with a hand-drawn illustration. “This is you, right?” she pointed to a lifelike drawing of him. “Like, the original Sir Borodere?”

     “Yes.” Jeran’s brows creased. “Wait. What do you mean by ‘original’?”

     “Oops. Probably shouldn’t have said that.” She waved the thought away. “Anyway—”

     “So, you actually believe me?”

      “When you’ve read as many of Lisha Borodere’s journals, spells, and archives as I have…” she shrugged nonchalantly, “Nothing really surprises you anymore. But this—your conundrum—I’m trying to remember if I saw any mention of it before…”

     “Did, uh…” he rubbed his cheek absentmindedly, feeling suddenly sheepish, “did Kayla mention anything to Lisha about an incident with a banana?”

      “Ah!” The archivist snapped her fingers. “Now that you mention it, she did. Let me see… I think it was…” she muttered a few words, before disappearing, then reappearing half a minute later carrying a journal with yellowed pages and frayed binding. “It’s funny, really. My colleagues always thought this passage was some sort of April Fool’s Day joke.”

     Inside, it read:

     “Dear Jeran:

     Here’s what Kayla and I came up with from our end. I hope this record survives long enough for you to read it. And… if this doesn’t work, just know…” there was a bit of the page that seemed especially worn, “that I love you, big bro, no matter where or when you are.

     Lisha Borodere.”

     Jeran bit back the tears. He could save them for when they were reunited.

     “Okay,” he finally said. “How are we going to make this work?”

     “Well… you’re lucky that I’ve been training in magic since I was a little girl, well before working here.” The older Aisha held out her hand. “Do you trust me?”

     He took hold of it without a second thought. “You’re ‘method acting’ my sister—there’s no one I trust more.”

     She muttered a few words before the world suddenly shifted. It took everything he had not to hurl when they appeared suddenly in a familiar, albeit synthetically lit, space. Modern Kayla let out a shout of alarm.

     “Elizabeth?! And—and—”

     “Surprise!” the Aisha replied with a smirk, “and on the clock, I’m Lisha, not Elizabeth.”

     Kayla shifted her gaze between them. “W-what are you both doing here?”

     Lisha turned the page of the book around and tapped the picture. “We’re sending this errant knight back to his own time and you’re going to help us.”

     Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right? You sound insane.”

     “Dead serious, I’m afraid. Isn’t that right… Jeran Borodere?”

     The knight took a step forward. “If you can help, I’d be eternally grateful.”

     The potion maker took a deep breath, shaking her head in disbelief. “When I started this job, I never imagined getting wrapped up in so many crazy adventures… As it is, I barely passed the potion master exam last month…”

     “Please, Sue? Lunch on me for a week—my treat!”

     Sue sighed. “Alright, fine. Curse my weakness for free food. Elizabeth, I’ll need a banana from the marketplace. Please switch the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ on your way out. And… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, Sir Borodere, gather up the materials while I start these burners. They should be alphabetized.”

     Jeran nodded. “Got it.”

     “Thanks, Kayla,” Elizabeth said with a grin before disappearing in a flash.

      “Yeah, yeah…”

     When all the materials arrived, the three of them gathered around a quartet of bubbling potions. An eerie glow filled the room.

     “This says here…” Sue’s brows were knit in concentration, “that all four potions need to be heated to boiling, then poured over… this banana here. I just,” she scoffed, “are you sure that this wasn’t written as some elaborate prank? I mean, in the margins, someone wrote ‘Chet Flash Wuz Here.’ What does that even mean?”

     “He’s”—Elizabeth patted Jeran’s back—“all the proof we need. And he’s looking pretty good for a 500-year-old.”

     Jeran grumbled under his breath.

     Sue pulled her gloved fingers across her cheeks. “If anything goes wrong, you’re taking the heat with HR, Elizabeth.”

     She saluted. “10-4, Sue.”

     All four potions coloured the banana in different ways, making it sparkle and shine.

     When the last drop had been used, Kayla placed the banana on the floor. “I hope for your sake that this works… and that my job training was enough to prepare this correctly.”

     “What other options do we have?” asked Elizabeth. “This is what his sister and friend left for us to make. It’s a gamble, but…”

     “Thank you both for everything,” said Jeran, bowing to both of them, “Lady Elizabeth, Lady Sue.”

     Sue fanned herself. “Just… take care, okay?”

     “Wishing you a safe trip, Uncle,” added Elizabeth with a smile. When Jeran’s mouth dropped, she added, “Well, what are you waiting for? Best to strike while the iron—or the banana, in this case—is hot!”

     Jeran rolled his eyes before taking a running start. When he slipped this time, he didn’t shout, only braced himself for the feeling of the floor. And ouch. That tail would definitely need healing again later.

     “Oh my gosh!” he heard a voice. “Are you okay?!”

     The knight opened his eyes slowly, hoping it wasn’t yet another jump into the future.

     Two worried faces hovered above him.

     “Jeran!” It was Lisha—his sister, Lisha—and Kayla beside her. “I was so worried that I lost you…”

     “Hi Lisha, hi Kayla…” he started weakly before being tackled-hugged by his little sister. Her tear-filled face pressed against his armour.

     Kayla was crying, too. Beside her was a pile of notes that the knight recognized as the documents they found in the future.

     The two siblings held each other in a strong embrace as Lisha wiped a tear from her brother’s eye. “Welcome home, Jeran.”

     The End.