Only Time Will Tell

by Aarya A.

There it was again; that same light— Phoebe reached out to touch it, but it was just out of her grasp. Suddenly, a loud noise woke her. 

Phoebe’s eyes jolted open, and she was surprised to see her mother towering over her.

“Mom, don’t scare me like that!” 

“You have your diner shift at noon, and it’s already eleven. Honestly, you’re normally so punctual about time, but I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” her mother said, crossing her arms.  

Normally, Phoebe would have told her that she was having weird dreams, but this time was different– these dreams seemed like they should be kept secret. 

As soon as Phoebe got home from the diner, she collapsed on the couch, desperately needing a nap. Normally, she would have been kept awake because of the fear of her dreams recurring, but because of her exhaustion, she fell asleep right away. 

“Hey, you! Get off the road!”

“Oh, hush! The woman is sleeping, can’t you see? We best not wake her.”

“I don’t give two hoots about her!”

Phoebe’s eyes began to clear, a haze of confusion fogging them. She sat up wearily.

“Well, now look what you’ve done, you brute! You woke her!” A woman stood before Phoebe wearing a white poofy dress with long, fitted sleeves and a flowery design. Her hat had an abnormally big bow that wrapped around the entire bottom half of it. 

Phoebe looked around to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Cobblestone roads stretched out as far as the eye could see, and shops lined the busy streets that were filled with horse-drawn carriages. Horseshoes clanking one after the other pounded in Phoebe’s ears as she struggled to sit up.

What is this place? Phoebe thought as she rubbed her eyes.

“‘Ello there, love.” The woman said this with a very heavy British accent, leaving Phoebe bewildered. 

No one in Richmond has a British accent, Phoebe thought. 

“My name is Martha Henry. Pleased to meet you, miss…” Martha left a gap after those last few words.

“Phoebe. Phoebe Bardot, miss.” Phoebe reached out her hand for Martha to shake, but she just stared at it blankly.

“Well, Phoebe, you’re surely not from around here if you’re going to go out dressed in that.”

Phoebe looked down at herself to see that she was still wearing her ratty diner uniform.

“Where am I?” At that, Martha gave her a puzzled expression.

“Well, that’s a silly question. You’re in London, sweets.” 

Phoebe’s eyes widened as she looked around frantically. No, no, no, there’s no way, Phoebe thought to herself. 

“But… there’s no way! I was literally taking a nap on my couch a little while ago.”

“Define the word ‘couch,’” Martha said, head cocked to the side.

“Hold on… what year is it?” 

Martha sighed. “Alright, bite your tongue. The year is 1708, and I have no idea in the slightest why you’re wasting my time.”

At that, Phoebe fell to the ground, and everything went black.

Phoebe began to stir, sleeping on a bed in Martha’s cottage. As her eyes slowly opened, she looked around to see a small wooden fireplace, ashes burning and disappearing into thin air. She saw a rack full of rusty pots and pans hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen, and the bed Phoebe was sleeping on creaked as she sat up.

So the whole 1700s thing really wasn’t a dream, Phoebe thought to herself.

“Ah, you’re awake! There’s a spot of tea boiling for you on the kettle if you’d like.” Martha had changed out of her poofy dress and was now wearing a nightgown with an apron wrapped around it.

“So you’re really not joking? It’s actually 1708?” Phoebe queried.

“Well of course it is, darling. Are you alright?”

“No! I’m not alright! I’ve traveled back to the eighteenth century and I have no idea how to get back home!”

Martha’s eyes widened, clearly startled by the fuss Phoebe had made.

“Settle down. How do you mean, you’ve ‘traveled back in time?’”

Phoebe sighed, trying to calm down.

“Where I live, it’s actually 2024, not 1708. Now, I have no idea why I’m here, but you need to help me get back to the twenty-first century, okay?”

Martha gasped, but the gasp just barely came out, and sounded more like a wheeze instead.

“You’re a witch!” Martha exploded, backing up three steps.

“What? No, you have it all wrong! I’m not a witch! I have no idea how I even got here!” Phoebe denied.

“That is just hogwash!” Martha grabbed Phoebe’s wrist in her hand and took her to the wooden front door. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but don’t ever come near me again, witch!”

With that, Martha slammed the front door, leaving Phoebe alone once more.

Rain clattered on the cobblestone road that Phoebe was walking on, pattering like a whisper in the dead of night. Phoebe shivered, her cold diner uniform sticking to her skin. She stopped walking in front of a blacksmith shop, crumpling into a ball on the ground and drifting off to sleep.

The sound of birds singing woke Phoebe. The clouds no longer looked gray, as now they were white and looked like cotton balls. It had stopped raining, but her uniform had become wrinkly and stiff. As Phoebe rubbed her barely awake eyes, she glanced over at a flyer that was stuck to a pole. As soon as Phoebe read the word “witch” on the poster, she ran over and ripped it off of the pole it was attached to. 

Witches Execution

Prepare for Caroline, Mary, and Elizabeth to be executed

London, 1708, England

Phoebe’s eyes widened. I hope Martha didn’t tell anyone about me, she thought, staring at the pictures of the three women that would soon be dead. 

Then, it was almost as if a lightbulb went off in her head. What if I went to the trial? I could ask one of these “witches” to help me get home! Phoebe thought, almost certain she would be home soon.

“We’ve gathered here today to prove that witchcraft exists. Those who deny it are to be hanged today, fourth of June, 1708.”

The booming voice of a man wearing a white wig and blue breeches traveled throughout the rocky canyon. Phoebe had needed to pull some strings to get here, one of which being stealing clothes from a shop. She now wore a long white peasant dress and brown leather crafting shoes. Phoebe slowly made her way through the crowd, holding the matchbox she had also stolen in her left hand, her heart beating faster with every step she took. When she finally got to her desired spot, adjacent to the women on the platform, she paused, trying not to look too suspicious. Phoebe carefully brought the matchstick to the side of the box and scraped it, causing the flicker of light to turn into a small flame. She held it between her middle and index finger and dropped the match on the ground, creating a wall of fire between the civilians and the “witches.”

The next thing Phoebe knew, people were screaming and shouting all around her, running in every direction. The smell of ash and smoke filled her nose as she looked around to find the three women. She glanced at the empty ropes hanging from the wooden pole, realizing that the witches were gone.

Phoebe caught a blur of color running past in the corner of her eye. Desperate, she ran in that direction, praying that it was one of the three women. She ran through the woods, pushing away the leaves that were blocking her path. Finally, she came to a stop near an underbrush and collapsed on the ground, exhausted. As she lay flat on her back, she stared up at the blue sky, smoke beginning to fill it. Phoebe’s head was pounding as her eyes began to close. Before she fell asleep, however, she caught a glimpse of a red-haired woman standing above her. And just like that, she drifted off to sleep.

“Phoebe? Phoebe, wake up!”

As Phoebe regained consciousness, she looked up at her off-white ceiling and the family portraits on the walls. She sat up, turning her head to look around at her dim-lit house.

Is this real? Am I really back home?

“Phoebe, honey. You’ve been sleeping on the couch all night. Go to your bedroom and sleep.”

She looked up to see her mom standing next to the couch, wearing a pale pink bathrobe. Her eyes were groggy, like she had just been woken up from her sleep. To her mother’s surprise, Phoebe wrapped her arms around her waist, not letting go. Her mother returned the gesture, wrapping her arms around Phoebe, holding her close. 

Phoebe was sure that the comfort she felt wasn’t just from her mother, but from the fact that she would never have those bad dreams again.

About the Author

Aarya A is a twelve-year old who is passionate about writing. She enjoys writing in her spare time and reading mystery and thriller books.