“Or swim very far, I’d imagine.”
“Who runs this place?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“You know, guards, jailers, a warden?”
“Who can say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone here on the island might be a jailer or a guard, yet we are all prisoners nonetheless.”
“What about a warden?”
Edmund hedged a bit. “On several occasions, a person has tried to take charge of things. You might call him a warden. But it always ends badly.”
“You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes, a very long time.”
A few prisoners ambled by, curious about my arrival, I guessed. Edmund greeted most of them by name and gave me a brief description: here, a mathematician, a poet, an artist, a philosopher…
I was about to say something but cut myself short.
“Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone here speaks a word of English,” Edmund advised.
One poor man was scurrying about on all fours, zig zagging this way and that across the dirt floor, and wearing little more than a white tunic. He seemed very impatient. I nodded to Edmund.
“Who, Geppetto? Oh, don’t pay him any bother. Completely harmless.”
“He seems to be waiting for something.”
“I suppose he is, waiting for the polishers to clear the wall.”
“The polishers?”
Edmund found a flickering torch and led me to the other side of the chamber. A group of prisoners were diligently rubbing the rock face with what looked to be animal hides.
“They spend years grinding the rough stone so that some of us may write our thoughts… like a blackboard in school.” He invited me to touch the wall. It was very smooth and very dark. As I looked more carefully, I could see that a good portion of the chamber had been made flat and glossy. Most sections were blank, but other parts of the wall had elaborate chalk drawings and blocks of text on them. Some places had been carefully etched and carved.
“What’s written here in chalk gets voted on, and if it’s popular enough, it gets etched in stone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once a year or so, we choose our favorite.” Edmund held the torch up for a better view. “Most of it is in Greek or Latin… here, this passage is in Aramaic…” He pointed. “And this is the universal language: mathematics.”
I glanced at an enormously complicated formula that had been chalked onto the wall, starting at about eight feet high and descending to the very floor. I could make no sense of it.
“Geppetto of course writes in a language no one understands. I doubt he even knows. It usually gets voted down, sad to say.”
“Have you ever talked to him?”
“Of course, though he may be deaf or mute. He’s never said anything in reply.”
“Never?”
“He gestures quite a lot. Poor devil, someone has cut out his tongue.”
“Why do you call him Geppetto?”
“Well, he looks rather Italian to most of us, and he’s never complained about the name.”
“You said he was mute.”
“Largely yes, aside from a few grunts. I don’t think he’s from around here though.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Not this earth.”
“You’re implying there’s another earth?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that exactly… but a world so different from ours, we’d hardly recognize it.” Edmund led me to a section of wall that seemed to be freshly chalked. It was about six feet wide and at least as high, crammed with tiny writing, edge to edge in a perfectly neat hand. “This is Geppetto’s work.”
I recognized the writing, though certainly not the language. I had seen this before. “What does it say?”
“No one knows.” Edmund gave me an awkward smile. “He’s also rather good at drawing plants.”
“Plants?”
“Flora… He’s catalogued every indigenous species on the island. Quite popular with the other guests.”
“Guests?”
“Of course, I mean prisoners.”
***
Mr Fickster and I went topside again for fresh, albeit, hot salty air. We walked along a pebbly beach dotted with patches of wet muddy sand— the shallow side of the island.
“No trees, just rocks… can’t even bury our dead. Though you’d be surprised at what things wash ashore: a stray barrel of wine, or even olives, odd bits of plastic…”
“So, you’re self sufficient here?”
“Of course, the place is overrun with chickens, and fishing is a very popular pastime. There are goats, sheep— we even had a cow for a time… poor thing.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, she up and died and we had to eat her.” He gave a tight smile. “The goats and sheep are for yogurt, cheese, and a sort of watery butter. We have a vegetable garden— tomatoes, zucchini and alike. There’s even a small lemon tree—well, more of a bush. We grow our own grain, and make our own flour, if you can call it that… so we have bread. No one goes hungry. But surviving takes up most of the day of course. We have few leisure hours.”
“What about coffee?”
“Not a drop.”
“Books?”
“Not a one. Aside from that, I suppose, in a way, it’s not unlike a vacation.”
“A vacation? But you’re a prisoner.”
“Alright, more like a retreat then.”
“How many people are here?”
“That varies of course… there are four other barracks just like the one you saw, and they’re all quite full.”
“How did you end up here?”
“Went to bed one night and the next morning I woke up here.”
“When was that?”
“Not really sure.”
We walked on a ways in silence. The breeze was picking up. I stopped and faced Edmund. “Why won’t you just tell me where Fynn is?”
“Honestly, I’m afraid that once I do, you’ll just leave me here.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Thank you.”
“Well?”
“Oh… hmm… It’s not that I actually know where Fynn is, it’s more that I know who knows where he is.”
“Wonderful,” I replied.
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Yes.”
“It’s someone you know,” Edmund added eagerly.
“Who?”
“The Magistrate.”
“My dreams…” I said, not meaning to.
“What?”
“That’s him in my dreams.”
“Ah, your dreams. Well then, I know just the person you should talk to.”
“Who’s that?”
“Chloe… or is it her sister, Lilly?”
***
“Alright then, what’s the plan?” Edmund asked.
“What plan?”
“Our means of escape…” He grinned.
“Isn’t the compass enough?”
“Oh yes, it should do nicely… not like last time.”
“You’ve escaped before?”
“Several times.”
“How?”
“Once I was fortunate enough to be imprisoned with Bruno Giordano, a navigator of unparalleled skill; no one knew the night sky better than him. We stacked up a few boulders on the lee shore and jumped at precisely the right time. Poof, we were away from here in the blink of an eye.”
“Why not do that again?”
“I didn’t even know what day it was until you arrived. It’s impossible to navigate, if one doesn’t know the correct time.”
“Any other ideas?”
“I tried to jump off a barrel of olives once.”
“And?”
“Sprained my ankle. I was waylaid for weeks afterwards.”
“What about the cliffs on the other side?” I pointed.
“The cliffs, yes, they’re available for
eleven minutes each day. But jumping blindly from that height is madness… one is likely to travel to the future, probably four or five hundred years. Few dare to leave this way.”
“How did you escape the other times?”
“Me? Well, I’m a good swimmer— when I was younger, at least. I happened to notice that a particular boat came to the same spot for days, indeed weeks on end, just at the horizon. I supposed they were spongers exploiting a shallow reef, and I took it upon myself to swim the distance. The fishermen were friendly enough and sailed me away.”
“When was that?”
“Well, it was nineteen sixty-four, of course.”
***
It wasn’t quite evening yet. Mr Fickster and I sat beside a beach with our toes in the shallow water on the south side of the island. Far distant, the first twinkling lights of Samos could be seen. The wind became gusty and refreshing. The Mediterranean had turned a steely gray. Behind us though, a dark figure loomed. Neither of us heard him arrive.
“Oh drat,” Edmund said and looked up at Mortimer. “I haven’t told him a thing.”
“Of course you haven’t.” He turned to me. “Well, well, well, Mr Jardel,” Mortimer said, as if spouting verse. “It’s the third time we’ve crossed paths, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” I could lie as easily as him. I counted five at least; but asked, “How did you get here?”
“Much the same way you did, I suppose, though with a bit less snorkeling.”
“This is your island, isn’t it?” I said, standing now. I helped Edmund to his feet as well.
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a wild guess. That makes you the warden.”
Mortimer laughed. “Warden, eh? I rather like the title, but hardly a word I would use. Call me the host.” He smiled thinly. “And yes, it is my island. Though it only exists in nineteen sixty-four.”
“How can that be?”
“I do not know, yet here we are.”
“Wait a second, I’m not buying it. How can this island only exist in one place in time?”
“Your world is billions of miles away by now.”
“What?”
“The earth has moved some distance since you arrived from your usual present. Your world is a few billion miles away. In that direction, I believe,” Mortimer pointed. “Of course you’d need a mathematician to work out exactly how far you are from home.”
“So, you’re saying time has stopped here?”
“Something like that.”
“If that were true, wouldn’t your island slide off the earth and be floating in the vacuum of space somewhere?”
“I’m not entirely sure how it all works,” Mortimer admitted and grimaced a bit.
“I still don’t buy it.”
“Yet, it is so. There is no island if you come in nineteen sixty-three, or before that time; nor does it exist in nineteen sixty-five or after.”
“What about the locals?”
“What about them?”
“The fisherman from Samos. They seem to know this place is here.”
“It’s not something I can readily explain. To them everything seems quite normal.”
“So, the island… it like sinks at midnight, December thirty-first?”
“Your thinking is rather limited, Mr Jardel. I suppose Flatland exists in a different dimension entirely. A place we cannot exactly perceive. A location where time does not operate.” He gave me a severe glance. The wind pushed his hair around wildly for a moment, then calmed. “And there’s no escape if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking that. I like it here. It’s peaceful.”
Mortimer was surprised by my comment.
“Are we here for eternity, or what?”
“In a manner of speaking. One might think of it as a bubble of time, separated, completely cut off from the rest of the world. It flows here at a normal rate, but no matter how much time seems to pass, it is always nineteen sixty-four.”
“And you can’t jump, no libra lapsus?”
“No.”
“How do you come and go? Or are you a prisoner also?”
“No. I’m a practical sort of fellow. I have a zodiac hidden on the other side of the island.”
“Oh… What’s a zodiac?”
“A small motorboat.”
“And no one notices?”
“I come and go at night, under the veil of darkness.”
I tried to take in everything Mortimer had said, and yet it still didn’t add up. I thought it best to say nothing for now, but my mind was racing. Then I knew he was lying. If it were impossible to jump away from this place, then why had he taken such pains to make sure there was no place to jump from? And I knew that Fynn had escaped at least once, Edmund as well.
“You have something of mine, I do believe,” Mortimer interrupted my thoughts.
I looked at his cane. It was the jackal’s head. “What would that be?”
“Someone, no doubt you, broke into my villa and stole a pocket compass.”
“Me?” I asked with a smile. “I would have taken your cane.”
“Who then?”
I shrugged.
Mortimer considered my non-reply. He took a few steps nearer and seemed quite threatening. “There was also a young woman involved…”
His attention however was wholly focused on me and not Edmund. To both our surprise, Mr Fickster snatched the cane from Mortimer’s grasp and sprinted across the island at an amazing pace. He was heading for the cliffs. There was no chance Mortimer would catch him, but set off in pursuit nonetheless. I followed close behind.
Mr Fickster finally stopped at the edge of the bluff. I could see him fiddling with the buttons on the cane. Obviously he had a specific destination in mind. “Stay back,” Edmund shouted as Mortimer drew near.
“I assure you, Edmund, that cane is merely a decoy. It doesn’t function at all except as a walking stick. If you jump, you’ll do nothing but dash yourself on the rocks below.” Mortimer paused to smile… “And, I’d miss you.”
Some confusion crossed Edmund’s face. He looked down at the cane, probably recalling a bear claw and not a jackal’s head. I could see doubt in his eyes. He also had something in his other hand, the pocket compass. He kept glancing at it. Edmund squinted at us both and then smiled. He positioned his goggles, turned and took a tremendous leap into the air, arms and legs flailing wildly. Mr Fickster blinked out of existence.
“Great,” I said aloud.
“Well, Mr Jardel, seems like you’re going to be my guest for a while…”
I didn’t even hear what Mortimer was saying, nor his sarcasm. What came to my ears was unmistakable: the hollow sound of wood clattering against rocks. The cane… Mortimer heard it too. In that moment I understood: Of course, Edmund is a genius. He didn’t use the cane to jump, he used his own compass. He left the cane for me…
In an instant I was scrambling down the cliff; Mortimer too, but he took a less direct route, safer perhaps, climbing down along some rocks. I hit my backside and slid down a steep dune. I tumbled at least once and landed roughly among the small boulders. Mortimer was almost upon me. He lunged as I reached out and grabbed the cane. I staggered away, and pressed the button. The jackal eyes glowed red. I turned, clambered to the highest boulder I could find and jumped out towards the dark sea.
PART III
Folding History
chapter nineteen
mentor
I knew that I had jumped, but don’t remember much else. Edmund was there in Flatland Prison, Mortimer as well. I don’t recall landing. Apparently I had though, for at this moment I found myself laying on some spongy moss. It was quite comfortable. I thought for a moment: must be a soft jump… no searing pain... so, I had been here before— still, no deja vu either; and Edmund was nowhere near as far as I could tell.
I looked up to see branches, and leaves in all shades of green, from bluish to yellow; the sun glinte
d through. There was a pleasant breeze filled with the scent of wildflowers. I looked to my right and spotted a small stream running through a glen. There was a rustic cottage with a thatched roof tucked away in the forest. I looked left and there was a beautiful woman sitting beside me, stroking my hair. It occurred to me this might be a dream. But it wasn’t. It seemed real enough.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Caledonia,” she replied.
“New Caledonia?”
“No, old Caledonia.”
“How did I get here?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“Edmund sent you.”
“Why?”
“To find Fynn.”
“Is he here?”
“No, but I am.” She brushed my hair with a pale hand. “You’ve been unconscious for many hours. I was growing concerned.”
“Where’s Edmund?”
“Off to Paris, I’d guess.”
“You’re Lilly.”
“I’m not… I’m Chloe, her… sister.”
“Sister? Really? You mean doppelgänger.” I tried to sit up, but winced as a terrible pain ran up my side. I looked down through an open shirt to find angry bruises. I had trouble breathing too— these might be broken ribs. I couldn’t remember how I got this way. Maybe fighting Mortimer for the cane… And this shirt… white and button-down with puffy sleeves— not something I would ever choose to wear. Then I realized I also had a tartan kilt on, and scratchy woolen socks to the knees.
I lay back down, not quite feeling myself. The woman was chattering away and I wasn’t paying much attention. Her voice was soft and soothing though: “…I’m sure she hopes to be rid of me someday, yet understand, we are distinct from each other.”
I stared up at her. She was Chloe from Cuppa-Joe’s Coco Bar and Tea Room, the would-be astronomer. She was dressed differently, wearing some sort of peasant’s smock; it masked her voluptuous figure somewhat. This Lilly wasn’t wearing glasses that hid her prominent nose, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was quite stunning, but kind of pallid.
“Why am I dressed like this?”
“Oh sorry, we had to change your clothes.”
Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3) Page 25