by Chris Turner
Risgan nodded with understanding. “This is a common conception for which I have strong sympathy. The nuisance of pettifoggery has always been an energy sucker to freedom seekers.”
“Too true—and you, being a gentleman, are not sympathetic to their ideals?” asked another curiously.
Risgan clicked his tongue. “I am a man of unencumbered disposition—I invite any salubrious unfoldment into my being, as too, any exciting and stimulating company.”
The women clapped their hands. Their moods ranged from excitement to languor. “This bodes well for us then, as we are a liberal group here.”
Risgan flashed eyes of encouragement in this direction of thinking.
After a time, Risgan was invited into their pool, and without ado, he doffed his rough, soiled garments and slipped naked into the hot pool aside the voluptuous women. They pressed in around him like familiars. Risgan was pleased with the unfolding events. The waters, the sight of the women surrounding him in a sensuous circle with their silky complexions and sleek curves, their blinking bright eyes and gestures and hints, gave Risgan a promising scope for a leisurely afternoon, particularly after suffering such stressing moments at Fiffiholth. The afternoon was ripe for exhilaration, and it passed in languorous comfort for Risgan, and none too shabbily for the maids.
* * *
By chance, the consort of one of the bathers had stumbled upon their quiet sanctuary some hours later. He had followed the cabal with surreptitious stealth, on his fatigued where-back, and was keen to discover the place of these fair ladies’ pleasures so far from home. The gentleman had no clue what to expect. When he saw a strange man lounging idly in the pool, taking favours from his spouse, he went berserk. He stumbled off his mount in limp horror and crashed down out of the brake, with gleaming sword in hand.
Risgan heard the tumult and was on his guard, for he was not insensitive to scenarios of this sort. Swift as a badger, he streaked naked from the pool, down the hill, snatching up his carelessly doffed garments. He pricked his bare toes and heels on sharp rocks and twice he cracked elbows on obtruding boulders. Nevertheless, he tore down the hillock, hastening to obey every rule of the fugitive in outwitting his pursuer.
Risgan peeked out from behind an upthrust boulder. Here he stared carefully at the nobleman who searched upwind of his scent and slashed under every tree root, boulder and depression, looking for the perfidious swine who had cuckolded him. Risgan, silently musing, watched as the stalker continued his fruitless searches, cursing profanely from time to time as he saw no sign of his quarry. An hour later the man gave up, and threw his hands in the air, retreating back gloweringly to the bower to collect his wife.
When he arrived, there was no sign of his charges; only the ripple-less pool. The swan carriage was gone, and Risgan, smoothing his chin with reflection, caught the last acrid shouts of the man’s anger, denouncing the doings of women and the deviancy of men.
* * *
Risgan continued on his long trek to Fahrur, passing lonelier and lonelier vistas with the sun arching high in a hazy, soporific sky. The retriever’s jauntiness had quickly diffused to a melancholy as he traipsed on, somewhat sullenly now, victim to a heavy depression at being deprived of the females’ company, a sojourn which could have lasted far longer had his preference prevailed.
He passed minor ruins: a standing triad of megaliths in symbolic suggestion of a forgotten fane. Poking about with club, he discovered no new trinkets or anything of interest: just a few shattered clay pots and some half-gnawed isk bones, a broken fire pit and coals, likely cobbled together by passing nomads.
At the base of a hill, a dull roar came to his ear. Risgan halted in puzzlement. A mini tornado had abruptly materialized. It sported a funnel of green smoke, blocking his path and he stared at it with stupefaction. From the bottom of the plume came Dasbir, spinning, wet, dishevelled and bruised. Risgan’s lips worked in wonderment. The dust devil whipped itself into a high-humming frenzy and then disappeared, behind a scarred knoll on the horizon. Dasbir sat dazed on his haunches, a slightly green-faced wretch and shaking with ague, looking much like a mistreated animal.
Rubbing his chin with surprise, Risgan saw a wrathful look on the time-smith’s face—an indicator that all had not gone well. A red gleam glowed in his eyes as he recognized who it was who stood before him.
“You!”
“Dasbir, what a pleasure!” effused Risgan. “That you would drop in unexpectedly is miraculous and gladsome. I have grown lonely in my wanderings. What news have you?”
The time-smith’s white lips quivered with unpleasant evil. “Ah, Relic Hunter! It seems fortune favours me in our meeting again! What an unseemly coincidence.” The time-smith’s jocular malice was not missed as he massaged his bruised arms and aching joints.
Risgan motioned with some surprise and concern at Dasbir’s left knee and other injuries. “I trust nothing is broken?”
“Do you know the rigours and inconveniences I have endured?” remarked Dasbir icily. “At the hands of your idiotic meddling?”
Risgan lifted palms to indicate that such comprehension evaded him.
“Let me tell you. After eluding the lusts of a Gargorian sloth, I splashed through a mile-long fens created by the magician Vur—a saturnine fellow, as many attest. There were obstacles to his domain and I tramped across moors and tableland, down valleys and through spinneys, avoiding rank sinkholes and one-eyed monsters that threatened to suck on my blood, or sluice out an eye... only then to pound furiously on the doors of Barrister Bevor’s manor to appeal for help. The oaf ignored my pleas. Can you believe it? When he discovered who I was and how I had come to the Time Horizon, he reported my breach to the Time Adjudicator, as a miscreant of Time—can you believe it? I, Dasbir Ofisia, am now known as a ‘Time Offender’.”
“It is truly unthinkable,” cried Risgan, putting a hand of shock to his throat. “What did you say to the solicitor?”
Dasbir gave an offhand snort, disliking Risgan’s glib tone. “I appealed to the Adjudicator’s good sense of judgement, of course. I was summoned before the Tribunal. To make a long story short, the Adjudicator’s advisory, deigned to grant me an audience, sitting on their high thrones and floating in a wispy ether. I offered a defence of my actions and my ultimate innocence of my crimes and the Adjudicator listened with some solemn reserve, though he took several notes on a luminous tab. Several times, when his brows furrowed, I thought to intuit that, the Judge of Time, the Great One, was about to hurl me into the wastes of Temporal Oblivion, the no man’s land of this world. He did no such thing. Instead he ordered me to seek out the impudent perpetrator of the first ‘Time Offence’, namely you, and bring him to the judiciary, so as to be allotted the proper ‘Horizon Penalty’.”
Risgan gave a bewildered chortle. “And you, of course, refused him?”
“I did no such thing!” thundered Dasbir. “In fact, quite the opposite. I avowed that I would be glad to bring this rogue who had caused the damage in the time stream to his doorstep. Only am I present now in this capacity, at the Adjudicator’s discretion, to escort you back to his realm.”
Risgan pretended not to hear. “Well, ’tis a good thing that you ignored the despot. What a maroon. Is there any other news to report, Dasbir? The weather? Life on the far side? No? Then, I will quickly depart, my dear fellow. I have several dames to catch up with at La-El and they have surely swift feet!”
“What do you mean, ‘dames’? And La-El? You are talking nonsense, Risgan. As I intimated, your hide is coming with me, to Fiffiholth, to atone for the wrongs you have committed. And thus, end the chain of dire events playing up to this time . I must return to the hill, to set my mechanism in order, specifically turn the ‘Time Wheel’ to the ‘Zero’ position.”
“Is this wise?”
“Of course it’s wise! Why would it not be wise?”
“Exercise caution, Dasbir! It all seems so impromptu. If this disequilibrium is not properly righted, then—”
“This sounds like an unlucky scenario.”
“It is, and to have to assert, it is a euphemism. Being a layman, you have no idea of the ultimate consequences of the Time Shift... consequences you have spawned!”
“Well, I have an idea of several toothsome maids waiting for me at the ‘Wise’ pool, and you of all people, Dasbir, know the ire of a woman. ’Tis worse than the wrath of any Adjudicator.” He laughed and nudged the scientist in the ribs with the hope of inspiring a jocular sentiment.
Dasbir gritted his teeth. “You jest at a time as this? All of fate and the future is at stake, and yet you are worried about the sensibilities of a bare-bottomed dame?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“Then if it helps—” Dasbir stabbed a thumb with malicious spite at Risgan “—I have given the Adjudicator your name. The keeper is a remorseless soul who resides at the Central Council of Time Miscreants and who records all sub-events of the Alternate-World. News of your impertinence has spread through the realm and will not bode well for your ultimate judging. The Adjudicator, as it stands, is not pleased with account of your meddling. He took careful stock of my memories of you.”
Risgan frowned and became suddenly attentive. “Now that you speak in such terms, Dasbir—perhaps a sojourn at Ezmaron might not be insalubrious.”
Dasbir nodded knowingly. “I prefer the name Fiffiholth.”
“Fiffiholth, Ezmaron, it is all the same! Let us proceed at once.”
Dasbir exhaled a curt breath. “Let me gather myself. All this talk of Time Horizons has fatigued me.” In a few moments they were both trudging shoulder to shoulder.
* * *
It was a long march back to the ‘Time Lab’, as Dasbir called it, escalated only by Dasbir’s infernal stumbling, though his moans and complaints grew intolerably. Surprisingly, Risgan could find no trace of the hot springs, even though he swore to have passed the boulders at the valley’s entrance some time ago.
It was all so odd.
When they arrived back at the Time Lab, Dasbir gazed with hair-pulling horror. Two of the miniature people had attempted to jar the Time Wheel back to its central position and unwittingly had been plunged into the vortex. A black streak of soot indicated the trajectory along which the tempest had ripped through and snatched them up. Several clocks were scorched, or completely burnt out of existence.
Risgan wiped a glad hand across his brow. “Well, it seems, Dasbir, as if your two friends have sabotaged the controller. I’m afraid my presence is of no avail now. ’Tis they who will have to answer to the Adjudicator.”
“Not so fast.” Dasbir stamped his feet in annoyance. “Your logic is circular.”
Squatting stubbornly, Risgan smilingly motioned to the skid mark across the marstone. “I am exonerated of the blame. It is obvious that your aides are the malefactors—a pleasant thought in light of everything. I feel relieved as each moment passes! Dasbir—I shall see you again in our travels! In another life perhaps, or on the next occasion that I stroll through this interesting vicinity.” Risgan tipped his hat and bid the old man good day.
“Stand right where you are!” snarled the time-smith. “The Adjudicator will judge your crime worse if you saunter off now, more seriously for having involved two of my innocent Marvars in this detestable gaffe of inestimable proportions. You have escalated the problem to an inferno of possibilities! Now, I must prise back the summoning switch. Look, it glints, awaiting my thrust. Two more living souls, my Marvars, are included in the time taint.”
Risgan pursed lips in a facetious scowl. “Perhaps this is only your opinion, Dasbir. You have not the decency to put in a good word to the Adjudicator for me?”
“Not in the least! I have suffered profuse injuries already. You have become a stigma upon my very life! A meddlesome canker, a worm, a stain, having cost me five years of my life! Folly that I ever invited you into my house, to Fiffiholth, my brainchild! Curse that you ever turned the time wheel!”
“It was curiosity only,” declared Risgan. “Perhaps if I returned the accessories that I borrowed from the maze earlier and passed them to the Adjudicator, he would extend his good wishes... ? No?”
Dasbir gaped at Risgan incredulously. “You admit to additionally vandalizing the Time Mechanism?”
“Not in so many words,” said Risgan delicately. “Should I return the items, or place them here at the receptacle that forefronts the lateral corridor?”
“Both and neither,” croaked Dasbir. He snatched back the adjuncts from Risgan’s hand. With prim horror he screwed the ornaments back into their respective places—on the east plinth and west cross-mantle with an abruptness that Risgan found tactless. The time-smith leaned back, breathing a gust of relief.
Risgan demanded, “So then, if this world is a mirror of our own, where is the Adjudicator on this side?”
Dasbir piked an irate finger in the air. For all his research, he seemed not to have an answer to the question, as evidenced by his slack jaw. “Your question is of no import. The continuum cannot be understood. Suffice it to say that reparations are in order.”
“To whom or what?” sneered Risgan. “If it is all one, then I reject this ‘continuum’, and this silly thesis of yours. I have wasted enough time returning to ‘Fiffiholth’ on your abject insistence. You have no proof that this Adjudicator exists, outside of your flagrant ravings. I defy this martinet of your mind!” Risgan put his thumb to his nose and made a comic sound. At that instant, a malevolent gale of wind erupted from the near horizon atop Dasbir’s hill.
“Ah, care to repeat that? Look what you’ve done!”
Risgan ducked in instinctive apprehension, no less, Dasbir.
Risgan gave a hesitant frown. “A simple volcanic disturbance, no more, Dasbir. Perhaps a stress on the tectonic plate. These things happen, and as a scientist I’m sure you know best. Rumblings have been known to frighten valiant men.”
The time-smith wore only a surly expression.
The retriever gestured wisely. “It is as I have implied—a natural fluctuation. Still, I do not wish to test my thesis... And in the interests of expediency, I must depart.” He sought to sidle away while Dasbir cowered about the marstone, looking frantically to the hilltop.
Risgan’s surreptitious exit was noted, and the midgets working at the front gate alerted Dasbir with righteous alarm.
“Where are you going?” demanded Dasbir angrily.
“Nowhere—just examining these supporting slabs which appear to harbour small chips.”
“This is likely from a lateral swing from Balsar’s inexperience.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Dasbir sighed. “I see I must chastise him.”
“A smart move, now as to my original suggestion—”
“Silence! I must depress the time switch to relay us back to the Adjudicator’s chamber.”
“Nonsense!” cried Risgan, flourishing a whimsical hand. “Let us for the sake of argument abandon this narrow line of thinking and assume that I journey to this fictional hyperbole of a realm of yours. What then? Am I to suffer debasements from the Adjudicator? How does this advance any of our aims?”
“That is to be determined by the Adjudicator. The weavings of the time-matrix are complex.”
“Complex or simple, I care not to speculate on the ‘time-weave’.”
“Your opinions are of no consequence. Suffice it say that some sort of equivalence must be restored. Now, I flip this rotor-switch and there we will make our respective cases to the Adjudicator. I wish you the best of luck!” The time-smith reached out a hand. Suddenly a gust of wind burst through the maze and chanced to toss off his cap. In his efforts to regain it, his hand flipped off his spectacles and they landed somewhere at the base of the pedestal near Risgan.
The relic hunter casually kicked the glasses out of the way while Dasbir fumbled about with annoyance. “Fool things! These spectacles are costly and a cursed nuisance. Be so good as to help me, Risgan. I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”
“A shame. I am searching for them this moment, Dasbir. Dags! They seemed to have slipped behind this giant plinth. Too large to move. I shall have to seek out an appropriate tool.”
“Swiftly then, and be careful!” barked Dasbir. “The rocks are fragile in this vicinity and sensitive to sudden jars.”
“This is only evident, Dasbir. I am a man of cautious prudence, as you know. Please do not pry back the time switch until I return.”
“I won’t, we will proceed together.”
“That eases my heart.”
After a lengthy absence, the old man grew suspicious and called out Risgan’s name in a less than melodious tone.
The calls were not returned and Dasbir grew fractious. “You can’t escape me that easily, you two-tongued rascal!” he cried, shaking a fist. “I shall rejoice in your demise!” The overwrought time-smith spat curses, panting, “I shall hunt you down for eternity and report you to the time-chasers! The Adjudicator will know of your insolence!”
To such threats Risgan listened vexedly at the threshold of Fiffiholth and pinched his face into a frown. Dasbir was a boor. Hunched before the double doors to the maze, he wondered though what truth lay in the distraught man’s words.
Risgan strode with all earnest away from the hectoring Dasbir, looking very much a hollow figure. “What a petty vindictive man,” he growled.
* * *
With more relief than resentment, Risgan made his second exit from Fiffiholth. He bypassed the vale of the bower and headed straight south toward an open plain, seeing little profit in meeting up with his jilted enemy, the bather’s spouse. It seemed that he had become an irritant to many parties of late, barring the wilful wives at the bower pool, with whom he tremendously wished to re-engage in more favourable conditions—though the likelihood of that remained slim.