The River Twice: Edge To Center, #1

By Brenda W. Clough

Calla Ang has always known her own power. Her grandmother is the dictator of Jalanesia in Southeast Asia, and Calla's future is to follow in her footsteps.

But after the Victorian time traveler Jack Wragsland invites her to 1867 to show Charles Darwin what a real scientific revolution looks like, Calla returns to the 21st century to discover Jalanesia is no longer the country she knew. As she and Jack thread their way deeper into an interlocking maze of alternate realities, there always seems to be a second chance...until suddenly there isn't.

The only certainty Jack and Calla have as the universes change is each other. But if she can’t learn to handle power wisely, then even love will not be enough to save Calla, Jack, or her country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda W. Clough
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781611387643

Brenda W. Clough

Brenda W. Clough is the first female Asian-American SF writer, first appearing in print in 1984. Her novella ‘May Be Some Time’ was a finalist for both the Hugo and the Nebula awards and became the novel Revise the World. Her latest time travel trilogy is Edge to Center, available at Book View Café. Marian Halcombe, a series of eleven neo-Victorian thrillers appeared in 2021.  Her complete bibliography is up on her web page, brendaclough.net

Book preview

Chapter 1

Calla did not need to look at her phone while texting, so she actually saw it happen. One moment the road in front of the car was more or less clear, except for Ponpet’s standard killer gridlock. The monumental stone triumphal arch commemorating her grandfather dominated the traffic circle they were stuck in.

Then, flicking into existence like the special effect in a movie, was a totally odd man. In a long black coat and tall hat, he looked something like the young Abraham Lincoln. Chocky slammed on the brakes, flinging all the passengers against the Plexiglas panel that separated the limo’s front and back seats. Azu abap! he swore.

Car horns blared. Her middle-aged maid Nanna clucked warningly. Calla keyed, gtg! and dropped the shiny insect-green phone into her backpack. Wow! Did you hit him?

Almost in the moment of stopping her personal bodyguard Mr. Lia was out of the front seat, his right hand inside the front of his dark blue suit jacket. The khaki-clad cops in charge of herding the traffic around the monument circle leaped into action, blowing whistles and waving other cars to pass on around them. Drivers leaned on their horns, or powered down their windows to curse in lurid Jalanese profanity that Calla was not supposed to know. At the sight of the limo and Mr. Lia the cops milled in confusion. Calla hopped out too, so that things would stay calm. It’s me, officers, she said with a smile. In her light blue school uniform and blazer she looked quite un-dangerous.

Miss Ang! It’s Calla Ang! Nervous grins and nods of greeting met her all around.

Miss Calla, Mr. Lia said in a voice of steel. This may be a kidnap attempt. Please get back in the car. Although he was neither tall nor wide, he seemed to become both in the effort to shield her from possible gunfire.

Calla ignored this, and so did Nanna, who had followed her — her job was to be the mother hen and stay with Calla at all times when she wasn’t at home or safe in school. Who is this guy? Calla asked. He’s not Jalanese.

Definitely he’s not, Nanna said. Look at him, he’s a foreigner. An American, maybe. Does he speak American?

Two cops were frisking the stranger, patting him down for weapons and yelling at him in Jalanese. The hat had fallen off, rolled into the next lane, and gotten squashed by a truck. English was a popular second language in Jalanese secondary schools, but probably none of the cops here were fluent in any language but their own. Let me try, Calla said. Switching to English she said loudly, Hello! How are you?

Thank the Lord! the stranger exclaimed. It was English all right, but heavily accented in a way she could not identify. Lassie, what is this place? He rolled bright blue eyes at her but was unable to move, surrounded by cops.

You are in the center of Ponpet, which is the capital of the Southeast Asian nation of Jalanesia, Calla said, taking care to speak clearly. Who are you, and where are you from? How did you get here?

To her surprise, and everyone else’s discomfiture, the foreigner threw up lanky black-clad arms and yelled, I did it. Proof, proof positive! Ha ha — Darwin will never live this down. He’s been wrong all this time, and I’m right! For a moment or two he whirled in place like a black windmill before the cops pinned him again.

Sunstruck, Nanna diagnosed. Look how red he is. We had better get him into the cool.

A foreign maniac, probably a terrorist, Mr. Lia said, also in Jalanese. Jail. There are high-security cells in the basement at police headquarters. With swift expert hands Mr. Lia emptied out the stranger’s pockets.

While he did this Calla said in English, What is your name, sir? Your country?

Reverend Josiah Garamond Wragsland, at your service, miss. I am a subject of the Queen, a citizen of the British Empire. He was grinning so joyfully he hardly seemed to notice being manhandled. What year is this, lass? Eh, I can tell it’s not 1867.

1867? You’re kidding, right? It’s 2010. Suddenly Calla really saw him: the funny long dark coat, the flowing mane of crisply-curled reddish hair and clownish sideburns, the way he gaped at the cars and the neon, the thick black shoes. Oh my gosh! Switching to Jalanese she rapped out, Mr. Lia — show me what’s in his pockets.

No obvious bomb or explosives, Mr. Lia admitted grudgingly. But we’ll test it all. He displayed a leather-bound notebook, a flat metal case that held two stubby handrolled cigarettes, a thin pocket knife, and —

Let me see that, Calla said. It looked like an economy-sized box of matches. But when she slid it open she saw the wooden matches were large and odd. They had a pungent chemical smell. On the wooden side the matchbox read, Lucifers.

A time traveler, she said, in English. You know, I think you’re telling the truth.

Of course I tell the truth. I’m a clergyman, in the Church of England. Wragsland was still chortling with glee. Ah, I know what! If this is the capital, lass, then take me to your leader. What is your name, child? I can’t go on addressing you as lassie.

My name is Calla, Calla Ang, Calla said repressively. She did not much care for being called ‘child.’ And this must be the first person she had ever met who didn’t know who she was. Well, it would be good practice for Yale or Princeton — college would be full of people who would not know her or her country. My grandmother is Madame President of Jalanesia.

Excellent. Let us go to her.

In the face of this naïve and giddy optimism Calla could only smile. Grandma sees nobody, she wanted to say — you want Uncle Bingo. But Grandma had been so gloomy this year, really down in the dumps. Would it do her good, to have to decide something? They could always fall back on Uncle Bingo, or Mr. Lia’s plan to toss Wragsland into a high-security cell. When Calla thought of her uncle’s green-clad elite bodyguard corps she did not think that a daffy time traveler would go down well with them. Sure, she said impulsively. Get in the car — let’s go.

Although he pretended to only speak Jalanese, Calla always suspected Mr. Lia understood more. And here was proof, when he immediately burst out, Impossible, Miss Calla. In a closed car — with you? Far too dangerous.

You can hold onto his papers and stuff, Calla said. Does he look like Bruce Lee? And, I know — he can sit in back between you and Nanna. I’ll sit in front with Chocky, with the partition closed.

And locked, Mr. Lia negotiated reluctantly. And the house guards will meet us in the driveway at Orchid House.

Calla waved an approving hand. Mister — Father — what is your proper title, sir?

Reverend, the stranger said. Charmed to meet you, miss. Are you in school?"

I am in eleventh grade at St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic School, Calla said. If you will sit here beside my maid, we can be on our way.

At her nod the cops let Wragsland go. He straightened his collar, pulled his shirt cuffs down inside the black pipestem coat sleeves, and awkwardly clambered into the back of the limo. Mr. Lia broke off his volley of commands to the cops and reached in to snap the Plexiglas barrier shut and lock it. Tell him, Miss Calla, that the slightest error on his part will be fatal.

Calla nodded her understanding and admiration — Mr. Lia wanted Wragsland to think that nobody else here understood English. She repeated Mr. Lia’s words to the stranger, adding, Please sit still until we arrive. I will be sitting in front.

She had not sat up front with Chocky in a while, and it was fun to survey his collection of gilt-edged saint cards, crisp dry crosses twisted from years of Palm Sunday fronds, and St. Christopher medals. Miss Calla, you are such an imp, the old chauffeur grumbled. Hauling home strange foreign devils — it’s worse than that puppy last month.

Grandma didn’t like the puppy, Calla said. I think this foreigner will interest her, though.

You’re a thoughtful girl. Chocky sighed. Enjoy your childhood while you can.

Calla had heard Chocky’s warnings about the excitements of adulthood before, interleaved with dark warnings about how she was too young to understand romance yet. Nanna had probably forbidden Chocky to tell Calla about how he spent his life helping people with their love lives — he plumed himself on being quite the Cupid. Instead of listening she kept an eye in back, on the antics of their visitor. Long-jawed and lean-cheeked, his features were too strongly boned to be conventionally handsome. It was an entirely alien look, like E.T. the extraterrestrial — nobody in Jalanesia had a broad high forehead and a pink complexion like that. Her eye was more accustomed to tanned Jalanesians. In comparison he looked peeled and raw, a loaf taken too soon out of the oven. Surely it could not be healthy to have so little melanin? Definitely the whitest of white men! He was gesticulating at the mopeds and buses and talking rapidly to Nanna, who looked out the window but every now and then cast an unhappy glance through the Plexiglas at Calla. What an odd fish. Those things on his face look exactly like copper scouring pads.

Chocky glanced in the rear-view mirror and grinned in agreement.

Once through the perpetual tie-up around the monument circle it was only another fifteen minutes to Orchid House. In spite of the name, the compound’s tall cinderblock walls were painted white, and topped with broken glass and razor wire. The guards were quick to swing the wrought iron gate wide. As the car idled through they saluted Calla, who waved back.

As always, Mr. Lia had kept his word. All the off-duty guards met them in the big central courtyard by the fountain. While Nanna took Calla’s backpack and hoodie inside, Mr. Lia insisted on frisking Wragsland all over again, this time with the most minute care. This is a tradition in your land, eh? Wragsland said as his shoes and socks were plucked off. Picturesque native hospitality customs.

You could say that, Calla conceded.

Oh, I say — not my belt!

He’ll give it back after he looks at it.

No, no you don’t! Wragsland clutched not at the belt, but a slim leather case attached to it.

Ah! Mr. Lia pounced. A secret weapon — I knew he was a snake.

Miss! Calla — tell him to give it back!

It’s not a weapon, is it? Calla asked in English.

Of course not — it’s a scientific instrument. Wragsland reached in vain for his property and then danced in frustration as Mr. Lia elbowed him back. The leather carrying case held a hinged metal tool in brass and silver that looked like many rods side by side. When Calla picked it up out of his palm she almost dropped it, it was so heavy.

A toy, Mr. Lia said in disgusted disappointment.

No, it’s a what’s-it, a protractor. She said the word in English as she passed it back to Wragsland.

Sweet heaven, an infant bluestocking. His device in hand again, Wragsland instantly became sunny again. Not a protractor, but my own version of a compass — dividers, you might call it.

Calla nodded, confident in her straight-A Catholic-school education. Like the one God uses, to measure out the world in that picture.

William Blake’s. Suddenly Wragsland’s bright blue gaze focused sharply on her, like a camera zooming in. The full force of his attention was like a blowtorch. Eh, you’re amazingly intelligent for your age, lass. Absently he moved his arms so that Mr. Lia could take off his long rusty black coat. Underneath he wore gray button suspenders and a strange stiff collar that seemed not to be a part of his shirt. This shirt was wrinkled — clearly not permanent-press — and weirdly long, at least six inches longer than any ordinary man’s shirt.

I’m on the college track, Calla said. An Ivy, maybe Stanford or Harvard. I’m taking English, Latin, and AP Biology.

Is it the custom, to disrobe your visitors entirely? Tell your man here that I prefer to button my own trousers.

My gosh, no zippers, Calla murmured in Jalanese. Mr. Lia, give it a rest, would you? You’re plucking him like a chicken.

We ought to do a body cavity search, Mr. Lia said, discontentedly.

No. Grandma will authorize that if she wants it. It scarcely ever failed to call upon Grandma’s authority. Mr. Lia set his mouth in a grim line and handed Wragsland his clothes back.

Dressed, Wragsland followed Calla as she led him through a side door into another courtyard, this one planted with vines and tropical flowers and adorned with a mural of Generalissimo Ang handing candy to children who danced with joy. On the other side of this space was Grandma’s private sitting room. Calla brushed through the French doors into a blast of icy central air-conditioning. Grandma, I’m home — and I brought a surprise.

She bent to drop a kiss onto Grandma’s plump cheek. Madame President Ang still showed hardly a strand of gray in the hair drawn severely back into a bun. Her square bulldog face had never been pretty, which was why, Calla felt, she scorned the cult of personality that Grandpa had cultivated. There were no monuments and triumphal arches to Grandma, even though she had run Jalanesia for a good part of the 20th century. She was clad in her usual black high-collared tunic and black silk trousers. A news magazine from Tokyo lay in her lap, opened to the obituary page. She greeted Calla as she always did: And did you study hard today, my dear?

Yes, we’re starting Java programming. And look! I met somebody really strange in the road, and brought him back to meet you.

Now that made her look up. Grinning, Calla pointed at Wragsland. His attention had been caught by the flat-screen TV, which was running a Chinese soap opera with Jalanese dubbed over. He stood there beaming with delight, his coat buttoned askew and the laces of his boots trailing, rubbing pale spider-thin hands together as if someone had just offered him a million dollars. How is it done? he murmured aloud under his breath. Not a window, onto a theater. Very realistic wee puppets? No, there’s no puppeteers above or underneath. Behind? He craned his neck, peering. I wonder if . . .

Don’t touch! Calla darted to deflect his questing hand. It’s rather fragile, do you mind? Look, we’ll turn it off for now. Come and meet my grandmother. Grandma, this is Rev. Josiah Wragsland. I believe he may be a time traveler.

Madame Ang rustled her magazine. You are too old for this, Calla, she said in Jalanese. Remember when you wrote a letter to Hogwarts in England to invite Harry Potter to fly on his broomstick to Jalanesia?

Calla winced. Grandma, that was years ago! Look at all his weird stuff here, you’ll see. Although his possessions had been returned to him, Wragsland had been too distracted to redistribute them back into his pockets. Instead he had bundled everything into a large white linen handkerchief and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Calla pulled the bundle out and spread it out on the dark wooden coffee table, continuing in English, Rev, tell her who you are and where you came from.

Reverend Josiah Wragsland at your service, madame. Wragsland executed the kind of courteous bow that Calla had only seen on stage. "I am from Great Britain, and when I left it was 1867. I should have thought to bring a copy of the Times with me. "

That’s not what we mean when we talk about traveling with papers, Calla muttered, suddenly uneasy. She did not like the way Grandma was frowning.

Fake, Madame Ang declared flatly in English

Wragsland’s mouth dropped open. Does she understand English?

I do, Madame Ang said. You are a liar and a fraud. Preying on my granddaughter, for your own ends — time travel, what nonsense. Calla, it is very dangerous to give rides to strangers — you are old enough to know that. There are all kinds of unreliable people on the roads.

Grandma!

Oh, I say. Wragsland flushed red right down to his high tight collar.

If you do not care to confess your motives now, Madame Ang said, we can arrange for you to tell them later.

Grandma, no! He’s a stranger, a guest!

Wragsland drew in a deep furious breath. And for my part, madam, I find it very difficult, very difficult indeed, to believe that an older woman of a lesser race can rule a country. Even our own Queen Victoria is wise enough to know the limits ordained by Scripture, and relies upon her advisers and the late Prince Albert.

Madame Ang’s small sharp black eyes narrowed. Switching abruptly to Jalanese, she said, Calla — how can he not know who is queen of England? They’ve had the same one for fifty years. Is he an escaped lunatic?

I’m telling you, Grandma — he came through time and space. Calla grabbed the newcomer by his rumpled black coat sleeve and pushed him into an armchair, taking the opportunity to hiss in English, "Do you mind? I’m trying to help you here. Okay now, Rev, she added more loudly. Talk about what this stuff is."

You use odd words, Wragsland grumbled. I hadn’t considered the language question — another important point. Is your accent American? Who would have thought that the mother tongue would alter so much? Well. My cigarettes, nothing interesting there. I buy the tobacco and cigarette papers in town, so that I don’t set a bad example for my flock. The matches, I cannot see why they fascinate you. Surely you can make fire. He struck one, not on the box but on the sole of his boot. It flared up with a harsh chemical smell, but when Calla hastily offered an empty Coke can for him to drop it into he became distracted by the lightness of the can, and nearly burnt his fingers.

Meanwhile Madame Ang examined the matchbox as Calla had done. This is very strange, she said.

Look at his clothes, his hair, his shoes, Calla said in Jalanese. He even smells funny — what is that perfume, Rev? she asked in English.

Wragsland reddened again, apparently this time in embarrassment. Tedo’s idea — Breidenbach’s Macassarine, to make my hair lie down better. Didn’t want Adelia — my fiancée, don’t you know — to be repulsed.

Aha. Calla pulled her tablet out of her backpack. Let me Google on ‘macassarine’ . . . Look, Grandma, see?

Madame Ang leaned to look as the screen filled with scans of antique Victorian advertisements. Nobody normal would smell like that on purpose, she conceded in Jalanese. Do you think he would take a bath?

Chanel Number 5 it’s not. Maybe you could just agree to believe each other, to save on wrangling, she said to Wragsland in English. I want to hear about the time travel. How do you do it? You haven’t got a machine, like in the movie.

For my part, I positively thirst to know all about your era. Wragsland beamed at her. What is this ‘movie’? How did that carriage work? What is this black device here, that you seem to have put to sleep?

Madame Ang scowled. This is going to be boring.

You must be a despot, Wragsland replied. You exhibit a sadly selfish nature. Are you sure this is a Christian nation? Shall I be obliged to preach the Gospel?

With an effort Calla kept from re-enacting ‘The Scream’ and clapping both hands to her face. Everybody will get what they want, okay? We can take turns talking, like civilized people having a conversation. And we’ll have something to eat. I’m hungry.

Calla had never known her grandmother to resist a plea of hunger. Yes, food, she commanded, and the maids came in with trays and platters of the traditional Jalanese afternoon snacks — dumplings filled with cilantro and shrimp, little dishes of savory vegetables, tiny spare-ribs in black bean sauce, sticky rice balls coated with crunchy sesame seed. The low dark wood coffee table in front of the white leather sofas was large enough to hold everything. With silent courtesy they laid a knife and a fork at Wragsland’s place.

The atmosphere thawed amazingly as their lanky visitor methodically cleared the plates. Madame Ang approved of hearty eaters. Have another scallion roll, she told him. You must still be growing. You too, Calla — don’t let them get cold.

Calla took the last sticky rice ball and decided to get things rolling from an oblique angle. How old are you anyway, Rev?

Eh, I’m quite the antique, Wragsland said, helping himself to more crispy-fried cabbage with red pepper. Came down from Cambridge seven years ago, took holy orders, and been researching space and time ever since. The structure of the universe, that’s my field of study.

Not yet thirty, Calla estimated — old, but not elderly like Grandma. And the research — that’s the time travel, right? How did you start?

By observing Nature, of course — how all great discoveries are made, even Darwin’s, Wragsland allowed with an air of generosity. I’ve decided to call my theory edge to center. Because my idea is a way to think about everything, everything that exists. Everything is either edge, or center.

And you can explain this, Calla said.

He smiled broadly. Nothing simpler. Examples surround us. He speared a dumpling onto his fork and held it up. Consider this wee dumpling, for example — delicious, bye the bye. What makes it a dumpling? It is this leaf, or dough, or whatever it is — the edge or demarcation, that separates it not only from the meat inside, but that keeps it together and separate from everything outside. The edge and the center, taken together, are the essence of this dumpling. The moment you lose the differentiation between edge and center — He bit the dumpling, and went on around his mouthful — it is no longer a dumpling, and is well on its way to digestion.

Madame Ang refilled his teacup, radiating skepticism. Are you a cook, or a time traveler?

Cast your mind back, lass. Do you remember, Wragsland said to Calla, what you answered, when I asked you where I was?

I said, Calla recalled wonderingly, that you were in the center of Ponpet.

And I was careful to leave from the center of London. Trafalgar Square, to be precise — the center of the center of the world. That’s why my device is shaped like dividers. You go from center, to edge, to center again. He hefted the empty Coke can. What I need now is to select things to bring back. Artifacts to prove that I’ve traveled through time and space. I don’t suppose . . . He gazed thoughtfully at the blank TV flat-screen.

You can’t possibly bring anything that uses electricity, Calla was quick to chip in. Or anything that needs a battery, or wireless, or connectivity.

I suppose anything that requires a word I don’t understand is something to omit, Wragsland had to agree. What a lot of new terms you have.

You are going to show these souvenirs to scientists? Madame Ang asked. Men of learning?

Surely. The mere thought made Wragsland radiate bliss. I was thinking of the next meeting of the Royal Society. I expect they’ll elect me a Fellow by acclamation immediately.

Then I will come with you.

Grandma?

You, madam? Wragsland blinked. "I — well, I hadn’t considered bringing a native back. All those aborigines hauled home by explorers — it seemed a cruel practice, slavery in fact if not in name. I am an Abolitionist, he added in explanation. Kidnapping one’s fellow man is entirely despicable, surely a sin."

Calla glanced at her grandmother and saw that she didn’t know what an Abolitionist was, either. Grandma, what is this? You aren’t interested in exploration or time travel, are you? Have you read H.G. Wells or anything?

I don’t read novels, Madame Ang said. Calla. You are old enough now to know this. Are you aware that I am a prisoner?

What? Calla gasped.

I did wonder about the very large number of footmen you seemed to have in the front courtyard, Wragsland remarked in polite conversational tones. How did you come to be imprisoned, Madam? Calla here told me you are the ruler this nation. Have you been recently deposed?

My son. Madame Ang pulled a fresh tissue out of the box as if she were pulling the giblets out of a chicken before roasting it. Bingamalore. He’s the de facto ruler of Jalanesia. He continues to call me President, but it means nothing.

The barbed wire, Calla gasped. "The guards. Uncle Bingo? But, I thought — I thought you didn’t want to go out, Grandma. How is it that I can come and go?"

You are a child, Madame Ang said flatly. A schoolgirl.

Grandma, I’m sixteen.

You are a child, Madame Ang repeated. "Remember that, Calla. As long as you are a child, your uncle doesn’t consider you. Get into a good college in another country, and grow up there. Become smart, become dangerous. And then — only then — return. Her voice was like iron. And take back your own." The implications of this made Calla gape like a beached fish.

But can she do that, if you flee? Wragsland looked around at the spacious and luxurious room. Large white tiles made the floors cool, and oriental rugs adorned them. Over the broad stone fireplace was a large framed black-and-white photograph of Generalissimo Ang, tall and solemn in a tail coat and a diagonal red sash, the official portrait taken when he became President. You receive guests. You have cooks and servants, and family in residence. This is an exceedingly luxurious imprisonment, so gentle your intelligent grand-daughter failed to notice it. If one pigeon flies, will your usurping son continue to be so kind to the remaining bird?

Calla took a deep unsteady breath. I think I should come too. He’s hit it on the head, Grandma. I can’t stay here if you vanish. What could I possibly tell Uncle Bingo that he would believe? Would he really let me go away after that, to Yale or Stanford?

Ample funds in a Swiss account are set aside for your college tuition, Madame Ang said, thinking. But I don’t know if you could access it without my signature. You should certainly not count on your uncle to have the funds.

If I take a human being back as evidence, I should certainly return you, Wragsland said. You would not want to permanently remove to London in 1867?

Absolutely not, Madame Ang said. I have tasks to accomplish.

They didn’t let girls go to college then, did they? Calla recalled. No way, Jose.

Josiah, Wragsland corrected her in passing. "Well, a jailbreak would be a fair recompense for your trouble, I would think. Suppose when I bring