22. To Certain Poor Jaspers
To Certain Poor Jaspers
Jasper woke with a crick in his neck, an uncomfortable lump against his back, and an unfamiliar weight on his chest. He quickly realized the crick and the lump were explained by the fact that he’d been sleeping upright, propped against a tree.
Then he looked down to find Delilah slumbering in his arms, her breathing deep and steady.
He didn’t mind. Not in the slightest. It was without doubt the most pleasant crick he’d ever had.
They’d kept vigil out in the woods that night, watching the barn from a safe distance.
But once the settlers retired inside, they didn’t come back out, leaving nothing to observe but dim candlelight escaping the walls and the occasional bleat, cluck, or whinny of an unhappy farm animal inside.
Eventually exhaustion had claimed them both.
Delilah curled against him, her head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder as if the space had been designed for her.
Now, as dawn arrived, Jasper was able to take a moment and simply observe.
The landscape was pristine and untouched by the “improvements” of humans.
Dew glistened on wildflowers that would be extinct by his time, while birdsong filled the air with melodies that had likely remained unchanged for thousands of years.
The trees surrounding them weren’t the carefully managed specimens of modern parks and nature preserves, but sovereign beings that had grown unchallenged for centuries.
Jasper found it bittersweet, that this wilderness would eventually give way to the cobblestone streets and buildings of Oak Haven.
Progress always came at a price, he supposed.
Of course, without those developments, there would be no history for him to preserve, no Stargazer Inn to welcome travelers, and no witches like the one currently drooling gently on his shirt.
Clearly, when this was all over, he was going to have a difficult choice to make: Delilah or the world.
On the one hand there was magic, mystery, and this magnificent woman beside him, and on the other.
.. what? Municipal records and fluorescent lighting?
Didn’t seem like much of a choice at all.
What if I just don’t go home? Could I do that?
Could I just stay? The idea bloomed in his mind like a highly dangerous flower.
But before the fantasy could truly take shape, cold reality arrived.
Who would he be, in this town of magic? A nebbishy archivist with no archives?
Zahir seemed to be flourishing in Oak Haven without magic.
But he’s a chef; he has a genuine calling.
Jasper had a calling, too, just not in Oak Haven.
Without his job, who was he really? Just some guy with too-strong opinions on document storage.
No, Oak Haven was Delilah’s world. Jasper knew deep down that ultimately he was just a tourist, just a stranger on the strangest vacation there ever was. And the thing about vacations is, they all end.
The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest, right beneath where Delilah laid her head.
His melancholy was interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open. Jasper tensed, peering around the massive oak trunk that had sheltered them through the night. The door to the barn swung wide, and a solitary figure emerged.
Agnes Bartlett.
Even from a distance, she was unmistakable—straight-backed, with the kind of purposeful movement indicating a woman who never wasted a single step.
Her dress was simple but impeccably maintained, her hair tucked neatly beneath a linen cap.
She carried a small book in one hand—perhaps a journal or a bible?
—and moved with quiet determination toward the woods.
Jasper gently shook Delilah’s shoulder. “Del,” he whispered. “Time to wake up. She left the barn.”
Delilah stirred. She sat up quickly, swiping at a bit of drool on her chin that Jasper pretended not to notice.
“Who? . . . Oh . . . you mean Agnes?” she asked, voice still rough with sleep.
“Heading into the woods alone. This might be our only chance.”
Together, they rose and crept after the retreating figure, always keeping hidden among the trees. They caught up with Agnes beside a stream. She had settled herself on a large flat rock. Her book lay open in her lap, though she seemed more intent on watching the water flow past than on reading.
Delilah whispered to Jasper this waterway would eventually be called Bonfire Creek.
“I can practically see the covered bridge that will span this someday. Luna fell in once and came up covered in pond scum—she looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. And one time Scarlett jumped off the roof of the bridge, but that’s a very long story.
..” Delilah’s expression turned wistful.
“It’s so weird—my past is currently the distant future. ”
“What should we do?” Jasper asked uncertainly. “Do we approach her?” His historian’s instinct warned against interfering with the past. What if they changed something crucial?
“ Of course we approach her. She’s the one person who can help us.”
“But what about the timeline? What if we accidentally interfere somehow? Aren’t we forbidden from talking to people in different time periods?”
“Forbidden by whom? H.G. Wells? Marty McFly?” She rolled her eyes. “Definitely don’t say Doctor Who, because he interferes with different timelines in literally every episode. Or she does, depending on the series. Whatever, you know what I mean.”
“Okay, but don’t reveal anything that could change the future.”
“Yeah yeah yeah...” Delilah stepped out of their hiding place and strode confidently toward Agnes. Jasper had no choice but to follow, feeling like a man walking into an exam three hundred years too early.
Agnes looked up, startled by their approach. Her hand immediately went to a small pouch at her waist—Jasper guessed it must contain some form of protective magic. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Good morrow,” Delilah said. She stopped a respectful distance away and did her best to sound historical , whatever that meant.
“Please, um, be not alarmed. My name hath be Delilah Melrose, and this—” she gestured toward Jasper, who was trying very hard not to hyperventilate “—is Jasper Hopkins. We, um, cometh from yon distant future.”
Oh sure, just lead with that, Jasper thought. Very subtle .
Agnes’s expression remained guarded, but she didn’t immediately flee or attack, which seemed promising. “What manner of beings claim such impossible origins?” Her voice was clear and precise, with a hint of an accent that Jasper couldn’t quite place—somewhere between English and something older.
“We’re from Oak Haven,” Delilah continued, “though in our time, it’s centuries old. We were sent back by a time witch named Louise Demain.”
“A time witch,” Agnes repeated, her posture relaxing slightly. “I have heard tell of such practitioners, though I have not had the occasion to meet one. Their powers are said to be most unsettling.”
“You said a mouthful, sister.”
Meanwhile Jasper stood frozen, staring at Agnes Bartlett— the Agnes Bartlett!
—with the helpless awe of a teenage boy unexpectedly meeting his favorite rock star.
This was the woman whose portrait he saw every morning.
The woman whose founding principles had shaped the entire county archive system, whose meticulous preservation techniques had saved countless documents from being lost to time.
And here she was. In the flesh. Breathing the same ancient air as he.
Agnes turned her attention to Jasper, clearly noting his slack-jawed admiration. “Does thy companion speak, or is he afflicted in some manner?”
Delilah nudged him sharply with her elbow.
“I, um, yes, I speak,” Jasper managed. “It’s an honor to meet you, Goodwife Bartlett. Truly. I’ve—well, I’ve admired your work for a great many years. Or... I will admire it. I will have admired it?” He winced. “Grammar is, um, not my friend at the moment.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Agnes’s stern features. “What work of mine hath earned such esteem from a man not yet born?”
“The county archives,” Jasper blurted, unable to contain his enthusiasm.
“You’re its founder. Er, will be its founder.
The organizational system you’ll create is so effective that it’s still in use hundreds of years later.
Your preservation techniques saved countless historical records that would otherwise have been lost.”
Delilah muttered, “I’m glad you’re not revealing anything that could influence the future...”
“The archive building itself is remarkable. The load-bearing columns preserve the original eighteenth-century design while accommodating modern needs. Though, if I’m being completely honest, the electrical wiring is problematic.
There’s this horrible fluorescent lighting that buzzes constantly and makes everything look like it’s underwater.
I’ve submitted seven formal requests to have it updated, but apparently non-migraine-inducing lighting doesn’t fit into the county budget. ”
Agnes blinked at him, clearly trying to process this babbling brook of information. “I know not what ‘fluorescent’ might be, but thy passion is most evident.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Though methinks it borders on unhealthy fervor.”
Delilah snorted.
“Your portrait hangs in my office! I look at it every day. I mean... not in a weird way,” he hastened to add. “Just with, you know, professional respect.”
“That’s enough, fan boy,” Delilah muttered, patting his arm. “Let’s not terrify the nice Puritan lady.”
Agnes studied them both with shrewd eyes. “If thou truly art from days yet to come, tell me: will our efforts to establish a sanctuary bear fruit? Does Oak Haven endure?”