Lord of Time

by Michele Amitrani

  “You are right,” Alfred said weakly. “I don’t want to die.”

  Pacific’s smile was wide. “Say the words, then.”

  Alfred hesitated an awfully long moment before finally saying, “I think I want to fill that time account balance after all.”

  Pacific searched inside his coat and emerged with his knife. He took off his glove, sliced his palm with a quick gesture, and handed the knife to Alfred, who took it.

  Alfred considered the knife in his hand. It was cold, and heavy. Much heavier than it had any right to be.

  Alfred breathed raggedly. He pressed his palm against the edge of the knife and felt an unpleasant tugging sensation followed by a sharp pain. The pain disappeared almost immediately. He stared at his wound, at the blood pouring generously from it. It was a deeper cut that he had meant to make. His hand had been shaky and unsteady. It didn’t matter. It was done.

  “I am ready,” he said. He extended his bloody hand, and Pacific stepped forward to take it.

  The hand holding the knife jerked suddenly to the side, and Alfred struck Pacific’s forearm. The reaper’s hand fell to the ground with a sinister thump, glove, wristwatch, and all.

  Pacific’s eyes widened with surprise. The scream he made was more inhuman than the sound of a thousand angry wasps forced out of their hive. Alfred didn’t waste time thinking. He buried the knife into Pacific’s chest. The black blade went easily into his body. Pacific stumbled back, and the tall man wasn’t tall anymore. He was on his knees.

  Blood poured from the wound. Pacific looked at Alfred, stunned, and stared at the knife buried inside his chest as if he could not believe it was there.

  “I will not be another piece on your chessboard.” Alfred stepped hard on the wristwatch and broke it under his feet. “Now you can’t go back,” he said. “Now you can’t feed on people’s desperation. The circle of death will close.”

  Pacific mumbled something inaudible and fell to the ground like a sack of wheat. He was dying. Alfred could see it clearly.

  Their eyes met.

  The reaper made a grimace of pain. Except it wasn’t a grimace. It was an odd smile, framed in blood.

  Alfred blinked.

  He suddenly felt disoriented. He looked around, confused. He was not where he was supposed to be. It didn’t take long before he realized …

  Alfred was looking at Steve’s face, so still and so pale. The man seemed at peace, and he reminded Alfred of a crafted porcelain doll.

  “Marvelous thing, déjà vu. Don’t you agree?”

  Alfred recoiled. Pacific was right beside him, looking at him with fascination.

  “That was truly a beautiful death,” he went on, one hand over his chest where the knife had been buried just a few seconds before. His hand was back where it belonged, no trace of blood. “I never thought you had the audacity to do such a thing. I am surprised. I’ll admit it. Bravo.” He clapped his hands theatrically.

  “How could you—”

  Pacific took off the glove from his left hand. He was wearing a second wristwatch. That one wasn’t working either. “When it comes to very important things,” he said, “I always keep a spare copy.”

  Alfred slumped on the floor. “I see.” He smiled, amused, and then he chuckled. “Funny.” His palm still had the deep cut. Blood poured generously out of it.

  “The cut will keep bleeding until there is nothing but empty silence inside you,” Pacific said. He took the small flask of transparent liquid he had used to seal Sophia’s wound and showed it to Alfred. “Once the cut is there, nothing but this water can heal it.”

  Alfred nodded numbly. “How much time do I have left?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes. Less, if you move.” Pacific stepped closer. Once again he took off his glove and cut his palm. “That was an act of bravado. I understand it. You wanted to prove something to me, and you succeeded. You have character, young man. Something I value. However, acts of boldness like that will not save you. Only I can.”

  Alfred looked at the reaper’s hand. It was close. It was tempting. It made sense.

  He looked at his own hand. Blood poured abundantly from the deep cut. A pool of red liquid was already gathering at his feet. It made him sick.

  Alfred looked back at Pacific. The reaper’s eyes were eager.

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” Alfred said faintly. He moved away from Pacific and felt the world spinning as he walked. “It’s not about life or death anymore.”

  Alfred stumbled on his feet, stopped, and sat on the floor. His breathing became harder. Surprisingly, he felt calm, in control.

  “What?” Pacific’s forehead furrowed in confusion.

  “Life and death don’t matter anymore,” Alfred murmured. He glanced at his cut.

  “You’re delirious,” Pacific said. His eager expression became perplexed. “What’s more important than life and death?”

  Alfred looked up. The church had an even bigger crucifix than the chapel’s. It was beautiful. He looked back at the reaper. “Salvation,” he said, smiling.

  Pacific took a step toward him. “You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with—”

  Alfred shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “I do understand.” He pointed at Pacific’s hand, ready for the handshake. “And my answer is this.” He raised a middle finger.

  Pacific’s jaw twitched. “What is this stubbornness of yours? You’re making no sense at all. Take my hand.” Again Pacific extended his bloody hand.

  “No sense.” Alfred gave a hard, humorless laugh. “What is sense, anyway? Spending a day with you makes that word pretty senseless, you know.” He felt his body go numb and his strength abandoning him like water bursting out of a broken dam.

  “Don’t be a fool, now.” Pacific showed a hint of apprehension. “You’ve made your point.”

  Alfred looked at Pacific. He squinted, rubbed his eyes. All he could see was a fuzzy figure against a bright mosaic window. “I’ve learned people are capable of doing drastic things if you drive them to the edge.” Alfred took a deep breath, swallowed, and took another breath. “Like planting a knife inside a chest, for example.” Alfred looked away and chuckled.

  “It’s not going to be what you think.” Pacific’s voice had an edge that made it quiver. “You are not—”

  “What?” Alfred croaked. He felt his mouth dry. “You mean, I’m not going to be your slave for eternity?”

  “You’re not going to be anybody’s slave, Alfred White, you are going to live. There are benefits attached to this offer.”

  “And if I should happen to disagree with you, maybe I will find myself begging you to stop while you torture me?”

  “That is simply not—”

  “I’m sorry,” Alfred said, feeling weaker by the second. “I’ll pass.”

  Pacific moved sharply to Alfred’s side. His expression was urgent now. “You’re not seriously considering dying on me, are you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Alfred said again as he felt the life seeping away from his body. He found himself smiling. “I’m just not part of your club.”

  “Look at me, Alfred.” Pacific took Alfred’s head tenderly in his hands. “You’ve gone too far to allow fear to stop you now. Your place is by my side. Shake my hand, and help me keep death at bay for you.”

  “It’s funny,” Alfred said. He looked at Pacific with amusement. “I just realized I’ve never asked you: why Pacific?” For some reason that seemed important.

  The reaper looked into Alfred’s eyes. Alfred didn’t blink or flinch. He let him look inside him for a thousand years and then some.

  Pacific released Alfred. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He sat beside his protégé. “I’ve truly lost you, haven’t I?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Alfred placed a hand on the reaper’s shoulder. “Your name,” he insisted. “I want to know why you chose Pacific.”

  “Curious until the very last.” Pacific’s smile was barely there, but it was the most
genuine Alfred had seen on his face.

  “Consider it my last wish.”

  “Fair enough,” Pacific said. He dropped the bottle’s contents on his wound and covered his hand with the glove. “My story starts with water.” His voice was slow and clear, a storyteller’s voice. “I was born in the Pacific Ocean on a stormy day that made the Pacific anything but.” He looked up, his grey eyes shiny. “No one has the right to wear its name more than I do. It fits me like a glove.”

  Alfred studied the reaper’s face. He could barely distinguish his features now. He wanted to ask him questions, but as soon as he tried to concentrate on the words, he forgot them. He let the other speak.

  “The Pacific is larger than the land mass of all the continents combined,” the reaper said. “It could swallow them all with room to spare. I am like the ocean. I can retain my identity and purpose, no matter how many names …”

  Pacific kept talking, but Alfred’s attention drifted. His words became streams of sound that made no sense at all.

  “Alfred?” Pacific’s voice was distant, the echo of a thought.

  Alfred blinked. “I need a long vacation,” he said to no one in particular. “I am so tired. So tired.”

  Alfred’s eyelids felt heavy. He closed them and felt so much better.

  Music started playing in the background. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. It reverberated inside the church. Or was it in his mind? The music was familiar. He had heard it before. Yes. It was one of his parent’s songs, the one he liked the most.

  The voice that was calling him went silent.

  Everything went black suddenly, and Alfred White finally knew the answer to his question.

  Epilogue

  Names are powerful things few people know how to handle.

  When you name something, or someone, that thing or that person becomes the name itself. And then it can’t be anything but the meaning it’s bound to.

  A name harbors the promise of a story, and every story has a beginning and an end.

  But this story is different. This story has many beginnings and many endings.

  That happens when you have, inside the fabric of the tale, a man with many names.

  Such a man can cheat destiny and forge for himself the ending he likes best.

  A man with many names is a danger to reality itself.

  He is a promise of dark things to come.

  The morning brought a stark wind that wormed between the buildings of the city like a never-ending snake. The cloudy sky spoke of rain to come, and the streets still wet spoke of rain that was already embedded in the past.

  Pacific was sitting on a bench at the center of Aion Park. His eyes wandered aimlessly, not looking at anything in particular and yet taking everything in.

  He was a dignified figure, brooding over his latest failure.

  “Names,” he muttered, disconcerted. He balled his gloved hands into fists. It was because of them that he had failed.

  He knew too well that the very nature of a name is a promise, and Alfred White had believed in the promise of a name that didn’t belong to Pacific.

  The man clad in black straightened up a little. He opened his mouth, closed it. He hesitated for a few seconds. “Samael,” he said at last. He paused, letting the word sink in. The name felt wrong in his mouth. It tasted like acid. It didn’t belong to him.

  Pacific’s jaw was clenched tightly. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. Then, like he was forcing himself to drink a bitter medicine, he said, “Satan.” That felt even worse than before.

  For a long while, Pacific went through the painful process of speaking all the names people had used to describe him. All of them left a sour aftertaste.

  He abandoned his futile effort. There was no sense to keep trying. He knew all too well the power of a name, but he would never understand the how behind it.

  It was like being able to wield a powerful magic sword but having no idea where it came from, or who made it.

  It was like a promise. You either believed it or you didn’t.

  The world was a collection of promises. Pacific knew that. People believed in ideas, gave them names, and suddenly they became stories.

  Such is the power of names.

  Names can turn an angel into a demon in a blink of an eye. Names can save a life and can start a war. Names are precious, and fragile, and treacherous.

  However, all things considered, Pacific knew his failure was a stepping-stone to his final goal. He had lost time, yes, but he had also learned many things in the process.

  A boy no older than eight came running toward him.

  Pacific frowned. “You’re late,” he said.

  “Sorry,” the boy said, trying to catch his breath. “Got slowed down by my granny.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “Taking a nap by the lagoon, as usual. She won’t bother us. I promise.”

  “Good,” Pacific said. “Are you ready?”

  The boy grabbed a big, red ball from the ground and showed it to Pacific with enthusiasm. “Ready!” he shouted.

  “Remember to throw it at my signal, and not one second before,” Pacific instructed him. “And for mercy's sake, easy with the swing this time, okay? You almost killed the last one.”

  The boy laughed at that. “That was fun,” he boasted joyfully. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it was.” Pacific smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Right, you rascal,” he said. “Go take your position.”

  The boy raised a hand to his head. “Yes, sir!” He darted away and hid behind a nearby bush.

  Pacific sighed. He looked up to the sky heavy with clouds. He knew it was going to rain. That was not a forecast.

  He saw something out of the corner of his eye: a passerby in a hurry. Pacific followed him with hungry eyes, tasting the promise of a new beginning.

  “Excuse me, young man,” he called, smiling an odd smile that looked a lot like a grin. “Do you know what time it is?

  THE END

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  http://www.micheleamitrani.com/about

  Acknowledgments

  This book owes much to a bunch of people that took some of their time and generously gave it away to make the story better.

  I was lucky enough to have critique partners who pointed out things in the story I’d never even noticed, and who went out of their way to give me valuable feedback.

  Two of them in particular, Mark and Sev, read the whole story and were kind enough to point out what worked for them and what didn’t. They are both talented writers who made my story better in many ways, and I’m lucky I had the chance to know them through the Vancouver Genre Writers group.

  A big thanks to my brother and my friends Alessandro and Jackson. They read a very early draft of Lord of Time, which at the time had a different name and purpose, and made me want to write more about Pacific and the economy of time.

  My friend Robin is probably the single biggest reason why I wrote this book in English and not in my native language. He challenged me to write in a language that was unfamiliar and odd to me. The challenge was real, and it was daunting, but after two years of trials and failure, I can honestly say his advice paid off.

  Thanks to Benjamin Roque, who designed a cover I just can’t stop looking at, and thanks to my lovely Mana, who makes me a better person just by standing at my side and believing in my stories.

  Lord of Time was fun to write. I hope you had fun reading it.

  Michele Amitrani

  Vancouver, July 21, 2019

  About the Author

  Born in Rome in 1987, Michele Amitrani is a transplanted Roman writer now livi
ng in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has grown up writing of falling empires, space battles, mortal betrayals, monumental decisions and everything in between.

  He now spends his days daydreaming on park benches, traveling through time and space and, more often than not, writing about impossible but necessary worlds.

  When he’s not busy chasing dragons or mastering the Force, you can find him at MicheleAmitrani.com or hanging out on Facebook at /MicheleAmitraniAuthor.