Smythe when he repeated poetry at school. But Mrs. Spurning was describing the history of Clifton as Ma had the night before. Mrs. Spurning kept calling it "Clifton Village."
"Do the people here really think it's 1840?" a Negro girl with spectacles asked. She looked really smart. So Mr. Wittingham was wrong when he said Negroes couldn't think like white people.
Jessie listened carefully to Mrs. Spurning's answer.
"Oh, these people aren't crazy," Mrs. Spurning said with a laugh. "Only the youngest children think it's 1840. All the others are let in on Clifton Village's little secret as soon as they are old enough to understand. No one speaks of it, though, because they are happy here. And they do get some benefits of the twentieth century—medical care, for example. It would be inhumane to let anyone die of the diseases that many died of back then, when antibiotics are available now"
"But that's not—" Jessie started to protest. Everyone turned to look at her, and Jessie realized she couldn't call this woman a liar. Not now. No one would believe her.
"That's not, uh, authentic," Jessie finished lamely. She cleared her throat. "I'm not saying I want anyone to die, but how do we know this is really what 1840 was like?"
"Now, that's a good question, isn't it, children?" Mrs. Spurning said in a sticky-sweet tone. She seemed to be making fun of Jessie. "We could never be 100 percent sure, and
things like twentieth-century medical care will always make Clifton Village a little different from any real village of 1840. But we've researched everything about this period, and Clifton Village is as authentic as possible. Now, do we want to talk about it or see it?"
She turned, obviously meaning for the children to follow her the rest of the way down the hall. As they trooped behind her, the girl with the spectacles came toward Jessie.
"She was sure mean to you," the girl said. "And it was a good question. I've been reading a lot about this period— people lived in really filthy conditions then, but I doubt if we see filth today."
"Oh," Jessie said. She would have liked to tell the girl everything, and ask her all about 1996. And ask her if slavery really had been abolished. But after almost giving herself away, she knew she had to be careful. The guards weren't chasing her anymore, but there was still danger. She wasn't allowed to relax until she told Mr. Neeley about the diphtheria and got medicine for Katie and the others.
"My name's Nicole," the girl was saying. "Nicole Stevens. My parents didn't have any imagination—there are two other Nicoles in my class."
"Oh," Jessie said again. She had never met anyone named Nicole. It was pretty. "I'm Jessie."
Mrs. Spurning saved Jessie from having to say anything else. She stopped the group and began explaining the system of mirrors and cameras that allowed them to see everything happening above ground. They were under the village square right now—she pointed to an image on a wide stretch of glass, and Jessie saw Mr. Harlow pull up his wagon to the
store. It was like the pictures back on the walls of the corridor, only Mr. Harlow was moving like in real life. One of his horses was missing a shoe, and Jessie had to stop herself from yelling out to him to get it fixed. He walked into the store, seeming unaware that thirty children were watching him.
"Off to the side, through each of these doors, you can see what's happening in the various shops and in each of the houses. Our monitors tell us"—Mrs. Spurning glanced at a box above the group's heads—"there's bread being baked at Dr. Fister's house, the potter is making bowls, and the blacksmith—oh, you should see this. Come along."
She led the children to a door marked joseph keyser, esq., blacksmith.
Inside was a room with about fifty chairs, more than could fit in Pa's shop. But against one wall, full-length, was a clear image of Pa bent over a horseshoe glowing red. Jessie could hear the crackle of the fire behind him
"Do the people here really think it's 1840?" a Negro girl with spectacles asked. She looked really smart. So Mr. Wittingham was wrong when he said Negroes couldn't think like white people.
Jessie listened carefully to Mrs. Spurning's answer.
"Oh, these people aren't crazy," Mrs. Spurning said with a laugh. "Only the youngest children think it's 1840. All the others are let in on Clifton Village's little secret as soon as they are old enough to understand. No one speaks of it, though, because they are happy here. And they do get some benefits of the twentieth century—medical care, for example. It would be inhumane to let anyone die of the diseases that many died of back then, when antibiotics are available now"
"But that's not—" Jessie started to protest. Everyone turned to look at her, and Jessie realized she couldn't call this woman a liar. Not now. No one would believe her.
"That's not, uh, authentic," Jessie finished lamely. She cleared her throat. "I'm not saying I want anyone to die, but how do we know this is really what 1840 was like?"
"Now, that's a good question, isn't it, children?" Mrs. Spurning said in a sticky-sweet tone. She seemed to be making fun of Jessie. "We could never be 100 percent sure, and
things like twentieth-century medical care will always make Clifton Village a little different from any real village of 1840. But we've researched everything about this period, and Clifton Village is as authentic as possible. Now, do we want to talk about it or see it?"
She turned, obviously meaning for the children to follow her the rest of the way down the hall. As they trooped behind her, the girl with the spectacles came toward Jessie.
"She was sure mean to you," the girl said. "And it was a good question. I've been reading a lot about this period— people lived in really filthy conditions then, but I doubt if we see filth today."
"Oh," Jessie said. She would have liked to tell the girl everything, and ask her all about 1996. And ask her if slavery really had been abolished. But after almost giving herself away, she knew she had to be careful. The guards weren't chasing her anymore, but there was still danger. She wasn't allowed to relax until she told Mr. Neeley about the diphtheria and got medicine for Katie and the others.
"My name's Nicole," the girl was saying. "Nicole Stevens. My parents didn't have any imagination—there are two other Nicoles in my class."
"Oh," Jessie said again. She had never met anyone named Nicole. It was pretty. "I'm Jessie."
Mrs. Spurning saved Jessie from having to say anything else. She stopped the group and began explaining the system of mirrors and cameras that allowed them to see everything happening above ground. They were under the village square right now—she pointed to an image on a wide stretch of glass, and Jessie saw Mr. Harlow pull up his wagon to the
store. It was like the pictures back on the walls of the corridor, only Mr. Harlow was moving like in real life. One of his horses was missing a shoe, and Jessie had to stop herself from yelling out to him to get it fixed. He walked into the store, seeming unaware that thirty children were watching him.
"Off to the side, through each of these doors, you can see what's happening in the various shops and in each of the houses. Our monitors tell us"—Mrs. Spurning glanced at a box above the group's heads—"there's bread being baked at Dr. Fister's house, the potter is making bowls, and the blacksmith—oh, you should see this. Come along."
She led the children to a door marked joseph keyser, esq., blacksmith.
Inside was a room with about fifty chairs, more than could fit in Pa's shop. But against one wall, full-length, was a clear image of Pa bent over a horseshoe glowing red. Jessie could hear the crackle of the fire behind him
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