Shadows Fall

by Simon R. Green

  She smiled down at the animals, the real and the cartoon, the innocent ones who knew nothing of what had happened and still saw her place as sanctuary. All the cats and dogs and birds came to her eventually, stopping for a few moments or a few days, before continuing on. It would have been nice if one of them could have stayed, but they never did. Any more than the men or women who came to her for love or comfort or an understanding ear.

  She looked at Sean Morrison beside her, a slender, brooding figure with a mass of black curls and an intensity that anyone else would have found intimidating. He looked, as he always did, as though he was about to leap up from where he was sitting and take on the whole world single-handed. And it would have been a brave individual indeed who would have bet on the world. Morrison was in his late twenties, though his eyes were older, and he looked like he carried grudges. He was Shadows Fall’s resident bard, drunkard and trouble-maker. He had few friends and many enemies, and it was sometimes difficult to be sure which he treasured the most. He was fascinated by the Sidhe, the wee folk, the denizens of Faerie, and spent as much time as they’d allow talking with them in their land beneath the hill.

  “I need your advice, Suzanne,” he said suddenly. His voice was a pleasant tenor, slightly roughened by years of drinking and cheap cigarettes. He didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the slow moving river.

  “I’ll help if I can, Sean. You know that. Shall I fetch the Cards?”

  “No. I don’t know. I have a decision to make, and I’m not sure if I came here looking for support, or to be talked out of it. It’s about the murders. I’ve had an idea.”

  “Is that wise?” said Suzanne dryly. “As a rule, your ideas get you into more trouble than even I can get you out of.”

  “You’re never going to let me forget about those elementals, are you?”

  “Considering the damage they caused after you let them loose, no.”

  “It was an accident. We got them all back again, didn’t we?”

  “After they’d caused an earthquake, a flash flood, a major fire and a tornado simultaneously, yes.”

  “I said I was sorry. Look, do you want to hear my idea, or not?”

  “Of course, Sean. Go right ahead.”

  “Erikson’s not getting anywhere with the murders. And he’s not going to. He’s in over his head and he knows it. The killer has power. Which means we’re going to need someone of power to find him. Someone who can look at the problem and the town with a fresh, outsider’s eyes. I’m going to visit the Faerie and petition the Unseeli Court for help.”

  “I’ll say this for you,” said Suzanne after a moment, when she’d got her breath back, “You don’t think small. Aren’t we in enough trouble as it is, without inviting the Faerie folk to meddle with the situation? They embody Chaos, Sean, and they have little love for most of us at the best of times. Which these aren’t.”

  “They’ll come if I ask them,” said Morrison stubbornly. “They have magics and sciences we only dream of. Maybe they’ll see something we’ve missed.”

  “Do this much at least,” said Suzanne. “Let’s talk about this with a few people first; see what they think about it.”

  “No. If you tell anyone, they’ll just try to stop me. I only told you because I thought I could trust you to keep it to yourself.”

  “Of course you can trust me, Sean. Give me a minute to think about this. After all, what you’re proposing is a major change in the town’s politics. Shadows Fall and the Faerie have gone their separate ways for centuries, bound to peace by oaths almost as old as the town. There’s a delicate balance in everything that happens here, between magic and science, real and unreal, and if that gets upset…”

  “Seven people are dead, Suzanne! How much more upset can things get?”

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne levelly. “Do you want to find out the hard way?”

  Morrison scowled, but looked away, and Suzanne knew she’d made a point. He sighed heavily, and looked out over the river.

  “All right; let’s talk to a few people. But not Erikson. He’d shoot it down anyway, just because it was my idea. He’s never liked me.”

  “Very well,” said Suzanne. “Not Erikson. Give me twenty-four hours to come up with some names.”

  “Twenty-four hours. And let’s hope no one else gets murdered in that time.”

  He broke off as the sound of approaching footsteps broke the afternoon quiet. The two of them looked round and saw a large figure coming along the riverbank towards them, the sun at his back. He looked broad and powerful, with a weight-lifter’s muscles. Suzanne recognized him as he drew nearer, and relaxed a little. Lester Gold could be trusted. She smiled warmly at him, and Morrison grunted an acknowledgement as Gold stopped before them.

  Gold was in his seventies, but had a physique that a man in his twenties might have envied. His face was heavily lined, and his hair was grey shot with silver, but his back was still straight as a rod and his eyes were as sharp as they’d ever been. He wore a suit that hadn’t been fashionable for years, and wore it with quiet style. He smiled at Suzanne, and nodded politely to Morrison.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said mildly, “But I did want to talk to you, Suzanne, if it’s convenient.”

  “Of course it is. It’s good to see you again, Lester. Do you know Sean Morrison?”

  Gold looked at Morrison with renewed interest. “The one who let loose the elementals?”

  Morrison groaned. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

  “Probably not,” said Suzanne.

  “Sorry to have brought it up,” said Gold. He put out a hand for Morrison to shake. It was large and muscular and freckled with liver spots. Morrison shook hands carefully, aware that Gold could crush his hand easily if the mood took him. Gold smiled at him, as though reading his thoughts, let go of his hand and looked at Suzanne.

  “I really do need to talk to you, my dear.”

  “Then please do. There’s a spare chair inside you can bring out.”

  “I’ll leave if you like,” said Morrison.

  “Thanks,” said Gold, “but that won’t be necessary. I’d value your opinion. I’ll just fetch that chair. Won’t be a moment.”

  He headed for Suzanne’s shack, stepping carefully to avoid treading on the small animals and cartoons that were playing a raucous game of tag under and around the sofa. Morrison waited until Gold had disappeared into the shack, and then leaned over to Suzanne. “I know the name, but I can’t place him. Should I know him?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Suzanne, her voice carefully low. “He used to be a pulp hero in the thirties, and a super-hero in the forties, like the Shadow and Doc Savage, though he was never that popular. His comic was cancelled in the fifties, and he turned up here not long afterwards. He’s been here ever since, running a florist’s in the Old Market, growing older and more real with every year. For a while collectors used to track him down, to get him to autograph old copies of his magazine, but no one’s asked after him for years. Every now and again he remembers who he was, and wants to get involved in town affairs, but it never lasts. His memory isn’t what it was.”

  “He still remembers you,” said Morrison dryly, looking back at the shack.

  “Of course,” said Suzanne. “Everyone knows me. Now be nice to him, Sean. He’s a perfect gentleman, and I don’t want him upset.”

  She broke off as Gold emerged from her shack, carrying a large and heavy chair with effortless grace. He dumped it down beside Suzanne, and sank into it with a happy sigh. Morrison eyed him respectfully. He’d moved that chair himself on occasion, and almost ruined his back doing it. Gold looked at Suzanne, and then away again, clearly unsure where to start or what to say. He looked down at the cartoons and the animals playing together, and smiled like a child.

  “That’s more like it. That’s how things ought to be. You look at some of the characters they’ve got in comics today, and it makes you want to weep. Costumed thugs and killer vigilantes
. What kind of example is that to be setting children? In my day we understood the value of honour and fair play. Even the villains. Everything’s different now. I don’t understand the comics and I don’t understand the world, as often as not. I suppose all old people feel that way, though I never really thought of myself as old before. The murders changed that. I can’t just sit around and do nothing, while people are being killed. It’s time for me to make a comeback, Suzanne. I’m needed now. Erikson’s never even investigated a murder before, but I solved hundreds in my day. I’m an expert at this sort of thing.

  “And yet, I can’t just walk up to the Sheriff and say I’m taking over. He’d just look at me and see an old man, who should be safe at home in his slippers, by his fire. He’s probably never even heard of Lester Gold, the Mystery Avenger. So what should I do, Suzanne? You tell me.”

  Suzanne smiled at him, and reached out to pat his hand briskly. “Sean here has been feeling much the same as you. I think you two should talk. You’d make good partners, if you’ll just listen to each other. Sean, you can start by telling Lester your idea, while I go fetch some beer I’ve got cooling in the river.”

  She got up and went down to the river’s edge. She pulled at the string attached to the six-pack sitting on the bottom of the river, and all the animals and cartoons came to watch what she was doing. Behind her, Lester Gold’s voice rose in outrage.

  “You want to ask what for help?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Galleries of Frost and Bone

  It was late afternoon shading into evening by the time James Hart and Leonard Ash returned to the park, and most of the day’s visitors had already left, heading for the comfort of home and the security of locked doors and windows. So far the murders had all taken place at night, and few felt at ease any more once the sun had gone down. Street lamps were already blazing at every street corner, though the shadows had barely started to lengthen. There was a tension on the air from the constant pressure of assessing eyes as people hurried down the emptying streets. Even those who preferred the dark and blossomed in the moonlight walked warily in the narrow streets, and sought the company of their own kind whenever possible. But even so, there are always some with pleasures or business that can only be satisfied after dark, in the privacy of shadows. They walked alone, in dignified haste, with carefully averted eyes, and ignored Ash and Hart as they passed. Ash watched them all with thoughtful eyes, but no one came close, even when he nodded politely.

  The park turned out to be empty, apart from half a dozen kids playing some complicated game with two frisbees. They didn’t acknowledge Ash’s or Hart’s presence, but allowed the course of their game to move them away from the Sarcophagus as the two men approached. A faint mist had sprung up, pleasantly cool on the skin, but the air had all the tension of an approaching thunderstorm. The temperature dropped sharply as they neared the Sarcophagus, and Hart was surprised to find his breath steaming on the air before him. Sudden chills shook him, and he plunged his hands into his jacket pockets. He looked back at the T-shirted kids who’d been playing in the last of the sunlight, but they were gone with the rest of the park, swallowed up by the thickening fog.

  He looked reluctantly back at the Sarcophagus, a great block of solid stone standing fixed and immutable on its raised dais. The stone showed no signs of age or weathering, but still there was a definite air of permanence to the Sarcophagus, as though it had been designed with constancy in mind. It looked bigger than Hart remembered, and seen up close again it seemed somehow more solid too. More… real. He stood with Ash before the stone, and shivered from something more than just the growing cold. The underlying tension of the evening was more centred now, more focused, and Hart shifted uneasily from foot to foot as Ash just stood there, looking at the Sarcophagus, apparently lost in thought. As though he was… waiting for something. Hart spun round sharply as he glimpsed something moving in the mists from the corner of his right eye, and then froze where he was as two dark figures stepped out of the mists to confront him. He knew their faces. He recognized their clothes, and the way they held themselves. Standing before him were another James Hart and another Leonard Ash, wearing casual, easy smiles. The Ash at his side nodded amiably to the two doppelgangers, and his double nodded amiably in return.

  “Time has been known to act strangely around the Sarcophagus,” said Ash calmly. “Not really surprising, given the stone’s many functions and responsibilities, and the fact that many of us suspect it of having a really devious sense of humour. One of the more common manifestations is time doubling back upon itself, so that the future ends up in the past. Or vice versa. Or something. I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about, but like most people who live here, mostly I’m flying by the seat of my pants. Or had you already guessed that?”

  The other Ash looked at the other Hart. “You’re right. I do talk too much.”

  “Nobody move,” said Hart. “I think I’ve got it. We’re looking at ourselves, leaving the Sarcophagus after having visited Old Father Time. Right?”

  “Got it in one,” said the future Hart. “Time knows you’re coming, so you’d better get a move on. He really hates to be kept waiting.”

  Both the Ashes nodded. “Is he in a good mood?” said Ash.

  “Is he ever?” said his double.

  “Good point,” said Ash. “Let’s go, James.”

  “Wait just a minute,” said Hart. “If you’ve already been through the meeting, can’t you just tell us what happened? Then we wouldn’t have to bother Time at all.”

  The two Ashes looked at each other knowingly. “Time doesn’t work that way,” said Ash. “Trust me. This is not something you want to think about too much. If you push it I’ll have to explain about differing time-lines, probability maths and fractal theory. Which would not be a good idea because I don’t really understand them either.” He sighed wistfully. “I always thought things would seem so much clearer after I died.”

  Hart looked at his future self, who was looking sympathetic. “Can’t you at least give us some advice on what to do when we meet Old Father Time?”

  The other Ash and the other Hart looked at each other. “Don’t touch the saki,” said the future Hart, and the future Ash nodded firmly.

  They both smiled at their earlier selves, and then turned and walked unhurriedly away, disappearing into the mists. Hart looked at Ash.

  “Is this kind of thing going to happen often while I’m in Shadows Fall?”

  “Probably,” said Ash. “It’s that kind of place. It helps if you remember that not everything is necessarily what it seems. Take the Sarcophagus, for example. It looks like a great big slab of stone, but it isn’t. It’s a moment of Time itself, given shape and form. It’s as solid as matter, but more permanent, unchanging and unaffected by the tides and stresses of the material world. You’re looking at a single, rather special moment in Time; the exact moment when the town of Shadows Fall was created, back when the world was young. At this point people usually ask why that moment should have taken on physical form, and my usual answer is, beats the hell out of me. Common belief has it that the moment became solid to protect itself, but no, I don’t know what from.”

  “Do you know anything useful?” said Hart, just a little more sharply than he’d meant.

  Ash raised an eyebrow, and his gaze was briefly cold and thoughtful. “I know how to get into the Sarcophagus, and how to get you an audience with Old Father Time. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Hart. He took a deep breath and let it out again. “I’m sorry. This is all… very new to me.”

  “Oh sure, I understand,” said Ash. “I’m dead and buried, and this place still disturbs the hell out of me.” Ash fished around in his jacket pocket and finally produced a small plastic snowscene, the kind of cheap junk kids lust after for no good reason, and tourists pick up for souvenirs of places they quickly forget. Ash held it up for Hart to look at, but drew back his hand when Hart went
to take it. “Don’t touch, James. Just look.” Hart shrugged, and leaned forward to study the snowscene closely. It filled Ash’s hand; a smooth dome of clear but hazy plastic holding within itself a single dark building. Ash shook the snowscene gently, and thick snowflakes whirled around the indistinct building.

  “Not everybody gets in to see Old Father Time,” said Ash. “He’s always busy, and he doesn’t like to be interrupted. But some people, such as myself, cannot be denied access, so he gives us each a key. This is mine. I don’t know what anyone else’s looks like, but this is my invitation to the Galleries of Frost and Bone. Time lives in the Gallery of Bone.”

  “Who lives in the Gallery of Frost?” said Hart, when Ash hesitated.

  “No one lives there,” said Ash quietly. “That’s where the Forever Door is. The final destination of everyone who comes to Shadows Fall. I came back through the Door because I was needed here, but I can still hear it calling. I always will. That’s why I have this key. Because the Door is waiting for me to go back.” Ash smiled briefly. “It’s got a long wait ahead of it. Now then, we can’t just stand around here all day. Time waits for no man. Particularly when he’s coming to ask a favour. Let’s get going, shall we?”

  “Do we have to?” said Hart. “I’m beginning to get a very bad feeling about all this.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Ash. “The Gallery of Bone is a dangerous and disturbing place, even to visit. But we have to go, because we did. You saw your future self. I can practically see the words Free Will forming in your mind, but forget it. I’ve argued every side of the question there is, and a few I made up specially, and I’m still no wiser. Basically, it’s easier just to go with the flow and not make waves. Try not to think about it. It’ll just make your head ache.”

  “Too late,” said Hart.

  Ash grinned unsympathetically, and held the snowscene up before his eyes. The snowflakes were still whirling, even though it had been some time since Ash had shaken it. Hart studied the snowscene almost in spite of himself. It became somehow more impressive the more he looked at it. The drifting flakes seemed more real, and the building in the centre of the storm began to take on depth and focus. Details formed, and lights glowed at tiny windows. Only they didn’t seem so small any more. The snowscene leapt up to fill his eyes, rushing out to fill the world, and then Hart was falling headlong into the howling blizzard. His stomach lurched as he flailed helplessly about him for something solid to hang on to, but there was nothing there, only the hammering wind and the bitter cold that seared his lungs with every breath.