PRESIDENT'S MAN

By: Angela Carr

I wasn't, but I smiled and nodded yes all the same.

"All right." Jake ran a hand through his dark, cropped hair. "Remember, the dizziness will pass."

"I know. Jake, I. . ." My chest tightened.

"Hey, come on guy! You've worked on this for a year now. You're ready. In and out. No problem, right?"

I nodded. Sure. In and out. No problem.

Jake extended his hand. I looked at it for a moment, before clasping it firmly. If all went according to plan, I would never see Jake again. He didn't know that, of course. I simply couldn't bring myself to tell him the true outcome, but I hoped my shake would at least convey a little of how much I appreciated all his and the Underground's support.

I smiled and released his hand, drew a deep breath. Exhaled slowly. I stepped into the portal.

My heart pounded, and I could feel the sweat breaking out on my palms and forehead. The machine started up: a low hum, followed by a series of clicks. The inside was dark and stuffy. The hum intensified, becoming a constant throb just behind my eyeballs. A wave of dizziness hit me. I closed my eyes and tried to force my stomach to calm. After a few minutes the hum faded, the dizziness left me. I opened my eyes.

The room was simply furnished. A dresser stood in one corner, four-drawer with an oval mirror framed to the top. A straight-backed chair upholstered in a flowered material sat next to the dresser. Against the opposite wall a small table supported a round wash basin and pitcher.

My eyes traveled the room, coming to rest on the double-sized bed directly in front of me. Four iron posts rose from each corner before ending in a sharp four-sided point. The headboard, also of iron, sported a series of scrolls that spun into a central figure of a rose. It was a beautiful piece of work.

The linens were white, amazingly so, and a blue blanket lay crumpled near the bed's end. A book sat precariously along the edge. One pillow had fallen onto the floor--a result of my sudden appearance. The other supported a tall, lanky man, gaunt almost, with a creased face partially covered by a thin beard. His eyes were round and wide with surprise.

Mr. Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

I blinked, hardly daring to believe my senses, but here I was in the President's room. The year was 1865.

"Who are you?" The President's voice was harsh and demanding, yet a touch of fear edged his tone. "Well, speak up man! Or be you a spirit?"

"No, no, Mr. President. I'm a man, just like you."

"How did you enter? Are you a Rebel?" His eyes darted across the room as if to gauge the distance to the door.

"Mr. President! Please! I'm not a Rebel, nor a spirit. Please. I must talk with you."

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, followed by a knocking. "Mr. President, are you all right, Sir?" a voice called from beyond the door. "I thought I heard a noise."

"Mr. President," I hissed. "Send him away! I beg you. I must speak with you. Alone! The fate of the world rests on this!"

I don't know whether it was the passion in my voice or the desperation in my eyes, but he stared at me for a long moment before answering, "It's all right, Jonas. A nightmare, that's all. I'm fine."

The knocking subsided. A brief hesitation, then, "If you're sure, Mr. President. Should I bring you up something warm? Cocoa, or tea?" My eyes widened. I shook my head.

Again, he looked at me as if he could see right into my soul. "Thank you, Jonas, but no...I'm fine. Do not concern yourself."

"As you wish, Sir." Footsteps walking away this time.

"I don't care what you are, be it Rebel, spirit or the Devil himself, but I suggest you tell me your business, Sir, and be quick about it! My man will not be far down the hall."

I wiped my forehead with a shaky hand. "Please, Sir...Mr. President." I took a step forward. For a second, I found myself tongue-tied, overwhelmed by the moment.

His eyes narrowed, impatience lurked just beneath the surface.

I drew in a deep breath, forced my heart to calm. "I must talk with you, Mr. President. What I am about to say will sound incredible. All I ask is that you let me finish. Then, if you still wish to call your man, I will not stop you."

Again those eyes seemed to penetrate my soul, as if stripping it bare. At last he nodded his consent.

I prayed silently for strength. "As I said, I'm not a Rebel, ghost or devil. Mr. President, I come from the future."

He arched an eyebrow. "Are you daft?"

I laughed, surprising myself. "Perhaps," I agreed, "I feel that way at times, but in this, no, I am not...daft. I am from the future, Mr. President. From the year 2210, to be precise."

Skepticism dominated his every move--the scratching of his chin, the tilting of his head. It danced across his face like a ballerina across a stage. I could tell he thought I had indeed lost my mind. That was all right. By the time I was done, I planned to convince him otherwise.

"I know how unbelievable that sounds, and I don't blame you for thinking I'm crazy. I assure, though, I speak the truth. I have traveled back in time, Mr. President, to see you in particular."

"And just why would a man of your...abilities wish to see me?" His voice betrayed his disbelief.

Instead of answering, I said, "You're not planning on attending the theater tomorrow night."

Bewilderment replaced the cynicism. "How did you know that? I have not even informed my Mary yet!"

I ignored the question. "You had planned to attend, but you've suddenly changed your mind. Why?"

His eyes narrowed. For a moment, I thought he would refuse to answer, but then, "I had a. . ." he shrugged, "feeling." His face hardened. "I want to know, young man, how you knew this."

"I promise, Mr. President, I'll come to that, and I'll answer any questions you have. May I?" I asked, pointing to the straight-backed chair. He nodded and I pulled the chair up to the bed. "First, let me apologize for my sudden appearance. I did not mean to frighten you."

He made a shooing gesture, still impatient for me to finish my business. I nodded. "Your instincts are good, Mr. President. You're right to be fearful of attending the theater tomorrow."

I paused. How to tell him? I looked at him, measured his worth. Only the plain truth would do. I leaned forward.

"I will be frank with you, Sir. Tomorrow night, you will be shot--the following day, you will die."

The President's eyes widened in surprise, but not as much as one would expect of such a statement. He indeed must have had a premonition about the evening.

"Well, then," he replied huskily, "it is fortunate I will not be attending."

I shook my head. "You don't understand, Sir. You must attend!"

"But you just told me I will be killed if I do."

"Yes, and your death will change the course of history." I sat up. "Mr. President, in my time, I am what is a called a Dreamer. I Dream of events from the past, present, and future. Since the age of ten, I have had two recurring dreams of our world's future. The two are vastly different from each other. That difference, Sir, hinges upon you and tomorrow night."

"Young man. I'm sorry. As interesting as your...tale is I find it very difficult to believe. Dreams, different futures--nonsense!"

"Please, Mr. President. Hear me out! Events of the future rest on the great moments of the past and present. If events of the past change the future changes, it follows a different time line. Imagine if you will that the United States failed to gain its independence. If that had happened would you be sitting here in the White House? Would you be President?"

The President paused a moment, as if contemplating my words. "No," he said at last, "I wouldn't."

"You see? The States gained independence, you became President, but had it not. . ." I shrugged. "The future unfolds based on a progression of crucial events. Change those events and you change the future, and in turn, that future's history changes. Do you understand?"

"I understand your theory, but I fail to see how it applies to me."

"By attending the theater tomorrow night you change history, and you change the future. I spoke of two Dreams. In the first, the world plays out as it has actually done so according to my world. Our history records you did not die by an assassin's hand, but lived to be an old man. In one month's time you begin compensating the South for their freed slaves. Initially, the Reconstruction runs smoothly. In three months, however, the first argument over payment occurs, followed by another, and another. In six months time, the fragile peace between the North and South shatters. A second war breaks out. Riding as it does on the heels of the first the country is nearly destroyed. Though this second war only lasts a little over a year, the United States never recovers. The division between the North and South grows into a bitter hatred. The country falls from power. People become isolationists, mistrustful of each other. Fifty years from now a new power emerges in Germany; a government intolerant of diversity, of individuality. Within fifteen years this power seizes the world. Europe first--Poland, France, England, so on and so forth--then across the seas next. The United States is powerless to stop the invasion.

"Mr. President, in my time, this government still controls the world. There is no freedom, no choice. Technology is limited to researching greater weapons of destruction, to maintaining the government's control. Advancements into other areas are banned."

"Son," the President interrupted, "you have my sympathies, but I fail to see how I can help you. If God wishes man to progress in this manner, who are you or I to say different?"

"But that's just it," I said, "man has not progressed. Man has become chained, stagnant. I don't believe this was God's design. Man was meant to be free, to advance, to learn. To live! We haven't, Mr. President...we haven't because you did not attend the theater on a rainy night in the year 1865."

"How can you say such a thing!" he exclaimed, sitting straighter. His eyes were stormy. "I've never heard such nonsense! Now, I've listened patiently to your tales, Sir, but I'm afraid it is time to end this charade."

"Mr. President, please!" I leaned forward and placed a restraining hand on his arm. He pulled away from me. I sat back. "Please, let me finish my story. I promise, if at the end you still do not believe me then have me arrested. I will put up no argument." The President stared at me, as if weighing the truth to my words. After a few moments, he nodded.

I closed my eyes and released a held breath. "As I was saying, I've had two visions of our future."

"That is hardly a vision," he interrupted a second time. "After all, according to you, you come from the future you just described, which, also according to you, has limited technology. Yet, here you are. How do you explain that, Sir?"

"I said technology is banned. I didn't say it is not practiced. There is an Underground of scientists who have secretly expanded their knowledge and put such knowledge to use, though they know their lives would be forfeit should they be discovered. They are the ones who developed the time machine that brought me here. The machine was twenty-five years in the making. Started almost from the first time I Dreamt of the two futures." I paused a moment, remembering Jake and the others. I missed them already.

The President coughed. My thoughts snapped back to the present.

"Yes," I continued, "so far, I have only described my world as it stands now, but my Dreams are not truly of your time, or my time. These images are but a map to the true purpose of my Dream, an event that takes place twenty-five years in my future. Mr President, in the year 2235, a meteor will destroy the earth."

The President's brow knitted. He shrugged, then made a chopping motion in my direction. "I don't understand!" His tone was sharp, clipped.

"Even now, this meteor is on a collision course with the earth. In 2235 it will reach our planet, landing somewhere near California. When that happens, and it will happen regardless of what occurs tomorrow night, earth will become inhabitable. Man will be destroyed." I leaned forward. "Most people are ignorant of this sword hanging over their heads. Ignorant, Mr. President, because man never expanded his knowledge of the heavens. What we know of the stars and the galaxy is little more than what you know in this day and age." I paused, allowing the President a moment to absorb the impact of my words.

"If this event occurs in both futures, then how do I play in? It seems my actions of tomorrow will be meaningless, no matter what."

"Ah! But you see, Mr. President, in my second Dream man escapes. Events of that time line fall out much differently. In this future there is no payment for freed slaves. Subsequently, there is no second war. In time, the country heals, although it is a long, hard road. But men eventually learn to appreciate and trust each other, eventually learn to treat each other as equals. The United States becomes a powerful nation. Technology advances; we work together to build wonderful machines unimaginable to you and I. We learn to master the earth and skies. To cure diseases. We fly to the stars, Mr. President! In this future, we understand our danger and we prepare. We leave for a distant planet, another galaxy."

"Equality among men, wonders that defy the imagination, mastery of the stars," Mr. Lincoln shook his head, "it seems a near perfect world, son."

I laughed. "In time, yes, life does become good, but it takes three world wars and the near destruction of our planet through our own carelessness to bring it about."

"World wars? I shudder to think what they might be like."

For a moment, the images of my second Dream surfaced--the death camps, diseases, the horrors of biological warfare. I closed my eyes, willing the images to fade.

"They were terrible." I opened my eyes once again and looked straight at him. "Now, do you see why you must attend the theater tomorrow night? You are the catalyst, Mr. President, the turning point. For whatever reason, your death brings about this second future." A lump formed in my throat. "Man was not meant to be wiped out of existence, Mr. President, but if you do not attend the theater tomorrow night. . ." I left the thought unfinished.

For a long moment, the President stared at me with an unreadable face. Then, he wiped his brow and dropped his eyes. "This is a lot to take in, son," he said quietly. "You've told an interesting tale. Dreams, machines that reach the stars, meteors. If what you say is true, then a heavy burden rests on my shoulders, but you have yet to offer proof that your words are not the fancy of delusional mind."

I nodded. "I understand, and I don't blame you for questioning me. I would, if I were in your place. Therefore, I will tell you of one other Dream I have had, so that you may know the power of my visions and know they speak the truth.

"When you were a boy, I'd say of eight or nine, your father owned a fiery, black stallion. It was your father's prize steed, his greatest possession. He loved it, as did you. You wanted very much to ride the horse, but your father forbade you, claiming the horse would be too much for a young boy to handle. You didn't listen. One night, you snuck out of the house, saddled up the stallion and brought him around the back of your barn to the wheat fields beyond. There you climbed atop the horse. At first everything was okay, but something spooked the animal, an owl I think, and he took off running. You tried to rein him in, but the stallion was too strong. In the dark and in its panic, the horse ran into a fence. You were thrown over the horse's head, escaping with only a few bruises and a scraped shoulder. The horse was not so lucky. He hit the fence, breaking both front legs. Terrified, you left the animal where it lay and ran back to the barn. You opened up the stall door, making it look as if the horse had escaped. The next day, you and your father went in search of the beast. By the time you found him the horse was dead, his body already picked over by scavengers. You never told your father the truth, and to this day the guilt of that incident haunts you." I sat back, gauging the reaction to my revelation. The story was true, I Dreamt it, but I guessed on the guilt part.

As it turned out, I guessed right. The President's face grew red, his eyes widened, then narrowed. "How did you know that! No one knew about that horse! No one!"

"Mr. President," I said, leaning forward, "I know. I Dreamt it."

The President ran his hands through his hair, pulled at his beard. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. "I still have nightmares about that accident."

I remained silent.

After a while, he reopened his eyes. "So what would you have now, Sir?"

"The question is not what I would have, Mr. President, but what will you decide? You can call your man, have me arrested. If you do, though, you will doom mankind. Or you can take my words to heart. The choice is yours."

"Yes, it is mine. Tell me, if you needed me dead, then why travel back just to talk to me? Why not travel back to kill me?"

I shook my head. "It doesn't work that way, Mr. President. Events must be precise, otherwise all you do is develop a third time line. You must be shot tomorrow night, in the theater. This is what I have Dreamt."

"Do you know how it will unfold?" he asked softly.

I told him. His eyes widened, but he offered no comment.

"Will you attend?" I asked.

"I don't know," was his response.

#

I swallowed the last dregs of my drink, then wiped my brow. I stepped outside, walked across the street. My hands were sweaty and my mouth was still dry. Did he show? The theater was dark; silent but for the voices on the stage. I made my way up the stairs. My eyes strayed to the balcony reserved for the President and his wife. The seats were empty! My stomach rolled. Suddenly, I saw the back of a head, then a second one. I exhaled a slow breath. I was wrong. There was the President and his wife.

I felt a deep sense of pride and respect surge for this man, and I knew, then and there, that Mr. Lincoln would be forever remembered as one of the greatest men in history.

As the moment grew nearer, my heart beat a steady rhythm. My hands shook. Time slowed. The voices on the stage below seemed to hush, become indistinct. The President looked over, spotted me. He bowed his head, ever so slightly. I raised one hand in recognition.

As he turned to reface the stage, with the other I pulled the trigger.

Copyright 2003.