The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  Hazel and Yukiko grabbed their packs and along with Pangur Ban, they followed the crew inland. An hour later, they arrived at the monkey village. It showed signs of human culture, from human-made ropes to an empty iron pot to one side. But it was unmistakably inhuman as well. The homes consisted of branch structures and canvas-covered platforms here and there high in the trees. Hazel knew from previous visits that most of the monkeys preferred to sleep out in the open, but a few had taken on some of the ways of humans. They traded with a few select ones, individuals who could be trusted not to reveal an island full of talking monkeys. Hazel knew that as the centuries passed, they would get the human governments to declare their island a nature preserve. But the nineteenth-century monkeys were far more concerned with getting gold for trade.

  Hazel and Yukiko found a low log to sit on while some of the crew reunited with their families. Pangur Ban glided silently into the woods, presumably to enjoy hunting in a novel environment.

  “They don’t like me,” said Yukiko after a few of the monkeys had approached and then fled when she looked at them.

  “They don’t like much of anyone,” said Hazel and pulled off her boots. Her feet, like the Professor’s and like everyone from her home world, had a large apelike big toe. It gave them good dexterity, but the difference was insignificant in terms of evolutionary differences with the humans from this world. Recently, she had seen the Professor using his feet to hold something while he worked on it, but a proper Southern lady would rather die than pick up anything with her feet.

  On a practical level, it meant they had to wear boxy shoes and could never take off their shoes in front of anyone who didn’t know their origins. It also meant that the monkeys from the hub world were fascinated by her and thought of her as somewhat inhuman. From them, that was a compliment.

  “They’re wary of strangers,” she told Yukiko. “Humans have generally not been kind to them.”

  “I think they know I’m not human. Foxes are predators to monkeys.”

  Hazel glanced around, spotting pairs of simian eyes peering from the foliage, studying them. The faces were large and small, old and some very young. Some of them vanished when she made eye contact.

  “They’ll leave us alone for a while,” said Hazel. “Then, they’ll offer to make a fire to make us comfortable. I brought treats for everyone, and everyone’s pay.”

  Later that evening, a cheery fire burned in the center of the clearing and Hazel concentrated on turning the stick in her hand so the roasting marshmallow would not fall into the fire. She handed off the toasted treat to Yukiko, who then gave it to the nearest monkey. The little fellow snatched it, bit into it and dropped it with a yelp as it burned his mouth. Another monkey grabbed it and ran off, followed by the first.

  An old female monkey, the matriarch, settled quietly beside Hazel and waited until all of the marshmallows were distributed.

  “I have heard about your mud man,” she said. “I liked Mr. Neil Grey, though I only met him a few times. A quiet man. Not so much chatter like most humans.”

  “Yes,” said Hazel, a stab of longing hitting her at the mention of Neil’s name. “We’re finding a way to bring him back. Have you ever heard of anything like this?”

  The matriarch looked into the fire, the reflection of the flames dancing in her black eyes, and she sighed. “There are stories, but they are only that. Stories for our younglings.”

  “Stories of men turning to earth?”

  “Not precisely. A monkey king born from a rock. He came from stone, you see. And he knew the name of God. Your first mate explained your golem story, and I noted the similarities. Also, the monkey king could turn each of the thousands of hairs on his body into copies of himself, like your Mr. Grey was able to make multiples of himself.”

  “He didn’t clone himself. He only traveled to a certain time over and over so all the versions could meet up.”

  “My mistake,” said the matriarch. “Well, the monkey king did not die and come back, as he was immortal. And he was a trickster, a master of clever words. Your Neil Grey was not like this.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He said what he meant, or he didn’t speak at all.”

  “An admirable trait. Would that more of your kind were like him.”

  Hazel could not disagree, and as the wood on the fire snapped and a breeze rustled the leaves, she missed him.

  “What did you say about the name of God?” she asked the matriarch. “Perhaps the word can help us. I have used all the names I could find to revive him, but nothing worked.”

  “He is nameless,” said the matriarch. “Or if he has a name, I have never heard it. I think the notion of the monkey king knowing the name was only a story. Like I said, I do not think it is any help. And I have other things I wish to discuss.”

  And then Hazel understood. The matriarch was working around to discussing payment for the next crew of Skidbladnir. This discussion of the monkey king was merely small talk to her. And Hazel had to admit that there could be little value in the story. It was too far removed from Neil’s circumstances.

  Hazel dug in her pack until she located the bag of gold that held the payment for the current crew. The matriarch set each gold nugget on the log beside her, counting them carefully. Hazel did not take offense. Unlike humans, the matriarch felt no embarrassment in ensuring that she had not been cheated.

  “I want more next time,” said the matriarch. “We are learning to set traps to capture ocelots and other predators that kill us. The humans have the materials we need, as we prefer the metal traps.”

  “How much more do you want?”

  They negotiated a higher price, which Hazel didn’t mind. What was money to a member of the Time Corps? With bank deposits spanning centuries, property and managed trusts, they could obtain money or gold easily enough. And the matriarch wisely insisted on always being paid in gold.

  “Will you play for us?” the matriarch asked once they were finished with negotiations.

  “I’d be happy to,” Hazel said and pulled her violin case from her pack. She always brought it, as the monkeys loved music.

  She tuned it and set it under her chin, noticing how the monkeys grew silent and still, some looking into the flames of the campfire, others reclining in the trees.

  She began with a slow, soothing tune, followed by a few lively ones. Once the music picked up, the monkeys clapped and danced, whirling and leaping together in undulating groups that separated and reformed, only to break into smaller groups again. Her crew always enjoyed music, and though they had no interest in learning to play, they loved to dance.

  Her heart wasn’t in the happier tunes, though she knew she played them skillfully. Even Yukiko, who had been gloomy since the loss of her tail, tapped her foot and even smiled a little at the capering monkeys. But without Neil to listen, something was missing. He had always loved her music, and sometimes she suspected he loved it even more than she did, and creating music had always been second nature to her. Even as a homeless child on the streets of New Orleans, she had earned money from her playing and had drawn the attention of Mr. Augustus, an expert musician. She hadn’t known then that he was one of the Twelve, but she had not earned her recognition at the music conservatory in Boston through the Twelve, but on her own merits.

  Skill didn’t matter though, not here in the humid jungle. Instinct mattered. Group loyalty mattered. Survival mattered.

  Neil was dead, and as more time passed, she started to question if it was possible to bring him back. There was a man-shaped hunk of stone on Skidbladnir, but it was not Neil.

  She glanced up at the sky. In the 1800s, the lights of modern cities didn’t dim the stars, and she felt their uncountable multitudes, spinning in space, orbiting other bodies or being orbited by others. Billions of systems, pulling each other and being pulled in turn. She imagined
that the stars were souls, together yet separate, dancing round one another like the monkeys, alive and pulsating.

  The night sky always reminded her of her parents who had died in an influenza epidemic when she was young. She had always taken comfort in the fact that she would see them again someday in heaven. Neil had told her that he had no soul. If he was correct, then he was more than dead. She wouldn’t meet him again on the other side of one of Astrid’s Doors. If it were true, then Neil was worse than dead. He was erased from existence.

  But giving in to hopelessness was not in her nature. If there was a way, she would find it, even if she had to tear apart time to do it.

  Chapter 24

  Huginn watched from the beach as Skidbladnir sailed through a time rip into the eighteen hundreds, leaving him and Astrid in the twenty-first century.

  “Sometimes I wish I could time travel,” said Astrid. “Elliot told me about some of the things he had seen, and they sound marvelous.”

  “But you do travel through time,” said Huginn. “Only you travel at one second per second, and always chronologically forward.”

  She walked up the beach toward the trees and Huginn followed, finding a perch on a large piece of driftwood. Astrid pulled out her phone and touched the screen here and there, scrolling through the screens to obtain whatever information it provided. Huginn did not see the value in such devices, but the modern humans did.

  “The monkeys still live here,” he told Astrid. “Even in this time. They’re still around. Care to take a little flap about?”

  It was good to have another bird as a friend, and he hadn’t realized how lonely he had been on his flights until he had someone who could join him. He wondered how things had been with his brother. Had they always flown together? Was that why he longed for companionship?

  He watched Astrid as she considered his offer. “I can’t. Graciela texted me a little while ago and told me it was going to be a busy day. Lots of sticky souls. She’s going to take me for training later. I can’t be away from my phone.”

  “Can’t she find you without your phone?”

  “Yes, but if I’m flying, she won’t have an easy time catching me.”

  That seemed like an advantage to Huginn, but he was not the one responsible for escorting the dead.

  “Could you do me a favor?” asked Huginn. “I’d like you to ask the other psychopomps a question. Is there any way they can check to see if someone has died?”

  “I don’t think there is a list or anything, but I’ll ask. Who do you want to know about?”

  “A brother. I think I had a brother once, and I want to know where he is. His name would be Munnin, and he would look just like me. We were twins.”

  “And you think he’s dead? How long since you last saw him?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Do you have a general idea? A year, a century?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  She looked up at him with pity, and Huginn hated it. He despised his inability to remember anything and he wished others didn’t feel sorry for him. His existence was not a constant misery, and unlike the humans who seemed to have existential crises over the littlest things, he felt sure of who he was, most of the time anyway. Even without his memories, he still had his keen mind.

  “I’ll ask them about your brother,” she said. “But if you can remember one place or time when you were with him, couldn’t you travel back in time and see him again?”

  “I can’t travel within ten miles of myself. And I have the feeling we were inseparable. Wherever he was, I think I was with him.”

  “But Pangur Ban could do it, or Hazel or one of the other Time Corps members,” she said.

  “Perhaps, but that would not tell me where he is now.”

  “Aside from Pangur Ban, is there anyone else old enough to remember your brother?”

  He thought about it. Santiago, the Coyote, was old, but he had always stayed in the southwestern part of North America. He would not have known a Norse raven. There were other ancient beings, surely. Who else was still alive who was old enough and might remember? Mongolia and Dubai were home to some old dragons, but then so was Wall Street. There were a few others though. They tended to be reclusive.

  “Perhaps Yelbeghen,” he said. “He’s old. Do you think you could ask him?”

  “Sure. Did you know him when you were young?”

  “I have never met him before.”

  “Which means he never met your brother either, right?”

  “Probably true.”

  “It’s still worth asking,” said Astrid. “You never know.” But her tone indicated that she didn’t think asking the drake would be helpful. Well, what did she know? She was wasn’t even two decades old. She hadn’t seen the things that the old ones had.

  Astrid’s phone gave a little chime and she scrolled through it. “I’ll be back soon,” she said. “If the ship gets back, go ahead without me. I can make a Door and catch up.”

  Huginn had a terrible moment when he wondered if he would remember that information. What if he forgot and no one knew what had happened to Astrid? Oh, but these modern people had phones. Hazel would call her on the phone. He had forgotten about that.

  A woman appeared down the beach, stepping through one of the shimmering Doors that psychopomps created. Astrid raised her hand in greeting.

  “I just thought of something,” Astrid said, turning back to Huginn. “What about Skidbladnir? She’s Norse and old. Wouldn’t she know something about your brother?”

  He watched Astrid greet the other woman and both of them stepped through another Door. In the trees behind him, a bird screamed. For the first time in his regrettably erratic memory, he was alone.

  The ship called Skidbladnir had carried the Aesir, the old gods, and all their armor. They were all dead and gone now, relegated to memory and stories. All of the old gods around the world were gone, as far as he knew. Even the god Yukiko had served, the Japanese rice god named Innari, who had survived into modern times, had died in World War II. Huginn and Yukiko were among the orphaned beings left behind. He supposed Skidbladnir was as well.

  He did not know how much time passed before Skidbladnir sailed back into view, but the sun was still up. He flew out to it, not wanting the ship to go to the trouble of coming to shore if Astrid wasn’t there. He wondered why she hadn’t simply changed into an owl to leave the ship earlier, but then she would have to carry a bag of clothing with her if she wished to become human. It was so much trouble to cover a furless, featherless body.

  Later that evening he perched on the gunwale to one side of the wooden dragon head at the prow of the ship.

  “May I speak with you?” he asked.

  “It would be my pleasure,” said the ship. “It is good to have a fellow countryman on board. So many skraelings walk my decks.”

  The ship tolerated but did not like the people from North America. She called them by the old term, skraelings, and thought them a savage and barbaric people, whether they were monkey, human or otherkind. Skidbladnir obeyed her captain Hazel, but it was more out of duty than affection.

  “How much do you remember about the old days?” he asked.

  “I remember much, my brother.”

  “Can you tell me? I remember little.”

  “I remember the battles, the conquests, the mighty warriors who walked my decks. I saw them leap from me onto beaches and destroy villages, taking what they wished. I watched them drink and feast on shore afterward. I watched the villages burn and knew the fear of being burnt myself. I rammed ships and was wounded over and over again, but I was repaired.”

  She told him of a few particularly brutal battles and Huginn listened, remembering bits and snatches of things. But he did not take the pleasure in it that she did. Oh, certainly the
re was glory and honor, the pitting of strength against strength, but there was also the stench of smoke, the screams of terrorized people and the feeling that something was wrong. Perhaps that was merely his twenty-first-century self thinking that way. He had been Guntram, a war raven. He had feasted on the dead with no qualms. It all seemed so long ago now.

  Skidbladnir continued, “And then there was the god we served, Odin. He was a wanderer as well as an occasional escort for the dead. He had but one eye, but with you and your brother, he had five eyes. It made him wise. Oh, and he was clever. Having you made him more clever. Having me made him stronger.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I did not witness it, and for a few centuries, there was talk that he would return. He never did.”

  “Have any of the other old ones survived?”

  “Only us,” she said. “Though I have not seen the entire world. It is large.”

  “Have you heard anything recent about my brother, Munnin?”

  “I have not, but I remember him. He was just like you. But you worked forwards while he worked backwards.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He held the past in his mind, all the things that had already come to pass. You thought of possibilities, the endless open space that is the future.”

  “We were better together. It is hard to live without him.”

  “Well, if you die, then you can thank the gods that your suffering will end soon and you can join him.”