by MK Alexander
“You have?”
“Seems familiar.”
“Did you see anyone?” I asked.
“Sure, I saw Murray,” the other me replied.
“Who is he?”
“A long story, poor guy…”
“He seemed to know me.”
“Were you being chased?” this version of me asked.
“Yeah. Who were those guys? Cops, military?”
“Don’t take it personally. They probably weren’t after you.” There was another pause. “What else can you remember?”
“A dark place, scary,” I said.
“Been there too, not going back though.”
“You were there?”
“Looking for you. Didn’t turn out so well.”
“Where is that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“The future though, right?”
“Yes,” the other me said.
“There were skeletons, dead bodies, everywhere…”
“Mortimer’s doing.”
“Mortimer?”
“Of course.”
“Who told you that?”
“Guess…”
“Fynn,” I said, then asked, “Who are you anyhow?”
“That’s a funny question.”
I didn’t feel like laughing. “You’re me… and I’m you.”
“So, you figured that out, huh?”
“But, if I jumped here, aren’t I supposed to take over?”
“Fat chance of that.”
I could now vividly sense it was a different mind with a different set of memories that met mine. This one knew exactly where to jump. He climbed up the set of stairs cut from the ice. It was like walking up the outside of an igloo. We reached the top; he looked down at the watch and turned himself until it glowed a steady green, then dropped it to the snow. We jumped. I fell again, or drifted. No fiery pain this time, just the usual oblivion. The cold fled, and a warmth began to set in. I purposely sought out any scent I could, and came up with barbecue-wintergreen. This was especially strange.
***
There was a smoky taste in my mouth when I arrived, if arrived is the right word. And the wintergreen seemed to be a piece of gum that I found myself chomping on. The tundra was gone in an instant, and so was the old man. I was certainly someplace different, someplace warmer— that much was clear. In fact, my backside was starting to burn, and I quickly became aware of an inferno just behind me. This was a real fire.
I found myself crouched on a window sill like a gargoyle ready to spring. The apartment behind me was ablaze. I looked down at my hands, they were mine but they were not, and I was not wearing mittens. My fingers seemed chubbier than they should be. Behind me I caught a glimpse of a charred corpse sitting on a couch. I had the distinct impression that it was a woman.
“Who’s that on the sofa?” I asked at large, wondering who might reply.
“You don’t want to know… no time to explain anyhow.”
“Why?”
“Bad earthquake… See?” a different me said. “Besides, your timing really sucks.”
“What?”
“Showing up now of all places…”
I looked down to the street three stories below. It was mayhem. People running wildly, some were silent, some were screaming and sobbing. The pavement was cracked and broken. I could see a city all around, familiar yet not. And the air was thick with moisture, like a roiling sea of mist. Everything else was lush green. This was definitely not the east coast, the trees were strange, and the cold humidity, like a chilly rain forest, felt unfamiliar. Everything seemed to be shrouded in a perpetual fog. I felt a tremor and it threatened to knock us off our tenuous perch. Bricks and masonry were falling all around. I looked to the east and glimpsed the outline of a jagged mountain range complete with snow caps. The Rockies? I wondered. No one answered my question. Smoke poured from the windows. I heard sirens and alarms, there were flashing lights everywhere.
“Where are we?”
“That’s not important,” the other me said.
“Where’s the old man?”
“What old man?”
“The one who brought me here.”
“Not sure who you mean.”
“What are we doing?” I asked my other self.
“Have to take you back.”
“Why?”
“You have a better memory than all of us.”
“Memory of what?”
“Everything… but, the past mostly.”
“Where are we going?”
“Dustbowl, sorry to say.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
I looked down at my clothes. They were different certainly, and for a brief moment, I thought I was living a completely separate life. I felt older, much older, but not as ancient as the guy on the tundra who had disappeared entirely from my mind. I tried to examine myself. I was fat and out of shape, I felt a belly pushing tight against a leather jacket. There was no time to consider why. I felt a sense of urgency. This version of me studied the same familiar pocket watch. There was an intermittent green glowing line. He tapped the dial several times. “Damn thing is shorting out again…” I heard him mutter.
“We’ve done this before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we have,” was the internal reply. I felt myself smile and chuckle, almost giddy from some sort of instinctive realization. This me was an expert traveler, or so I hoped. It was a long way to the ground but we jumped nonetheless. Oblivion yes, pain no, and along with it, the faint smell of diesel fuel...
* * *
chapter four
led zep
I dreamed I was falling again and unnecessarily braced for impact. I wasn’t really falling at all, but woke with a start, and maybe a gasp as well. I opened my eyes and blinked several times, not at all sure where I was. I looked around to see a dark room. There was a light from somewhere but it didn’t illuminate anything significant. There was a table nearby. I could see two glasses on it. I think there was a window too, and I heard a soft rumbling in the distance. It was probably the sound of surf pounding a nearby shoreline. Across from me was a familiar man sitting in a chair. It was Tractus Fynn, of course. I recognized him at once and watched as a smile came to his face. Needless to say this was a huge comfort to me. I immediately presumed to be back in his living room.
“So then, you’re awake,” he said softly.
I blinked a few more times. “I am… I think…” My hand went to my brow. “Where am I?”
“Somewhere safe for now.”
“Just had the strangest dream…” I glanced at Fynn.
“A dream, eh?” he said more than asked.
I looked around again but couldn’t quite think where I was. There was light from somewhere and shadows crossed Fynn’s face in a repeating pattern. He did not have the same bright look to his expression as usual. There was a small table between us. I saw two glasses, the one nearer to Fynn, a glass of scotch, I guessed. There was also a dull rumbling from somewhere, almost a vibration. I thought I heard other people talking, but in low tones, and in a language I didn’t immediately recognize. This was not Inspector Fynn’s living room.
“Do you require a paper and pen?” Fynn asked.
“For what?”
“To record your dreams.”
“No, not really.”
“Well, I would be most interested to know…” he said, then raised his hand and signaled. Someone in a white uniform came over and bowed. The man was sharply dressed and actually clicked his heels together. “A coffee?” Fynn asked.
I nodded, and he spoke to the man again, I think in German. I had the vague feeling that we were aboard a ship now. We seemed to be moving. I then noticed my own clothes. I was wearing a button down shirt, a baggy suit and a necktie. Around my ankles was some sort of strange garter apparatus; apparently they were holding up my socks. All this surprised me somewhat, not remembering the last time I had put on a tie.<
br />
It took a good ten minutes to write down my dreams, and I was lucky to get a tiny fraction of them on paper. It was more like I had just lived several lifetimes, the details of which meandered restlessly through my mind, evaporating like soap bubbles. I was reminded how subtle and nuanced dreams can be. I looked up at Fynn from time to time. He merely glanced back, waiting patiently, nodding or smiling reassuringly. While there were yawning gaps in my memory, I was able to recognize a few events: playing ultimate frisbee, camping… talking to a crazy man… some very disturbing mud, a blinding tundra and a terrible fire. Nothing made sense to me, but coffee arrived and I gulped it down greedily. It didn’t seem quite right and left a funny taste in my mouth.
“Well?” Fynn asked once I had stopped writing.
I passed the paper to him and he gave it a careful read, stopping on occasion to let go a chuckle or a smile. “When was the last time we were together?” Fynn asked after a few moments.
His question was so strange I couldn’t answer. I didn’t remember anything beyond my dreams. I tried to concentrate. Something finally came to mind. I stammered, “W-we were working on our first case together… as partners.”
“Ah, you recollect that?”
I nodded. “We were sitting in your living room… talking… something about an attempted murder. Mrs Dumont… a fallen tree, poison candles.”
“That was quite sometime ago,” Fynn said blandly.
“Was it?” I asked. “We had to leave early or something… we never finished that conversation.”
“You recall nothing else?”
I thought hard. “Wait, the cane… Mortimer’s cane. You told me it had been stolen.”
“Indeed… it’s been the sole focus of our present for quite sometime now.” Fynn grimaced painfully. “Do you know when this was?”
“Um, a day or two ago, I think. We were in the Depot Cafe… Anika was there, and Lorraine, of course. We were having breakfast…”
“You recall nothing about nineteen thirty-three?”
“Nineteen thirty-three?” I repeated and thought the question very odd. I shook my head.
“Do you remember anything about Colorado?” Fynn asked.
“Colorado? No… should I?”
“Something about jumping at altitude?”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. What’s in Colorado?”
“Boulder. But you remember nothing?” Fynn persisted.
“No.”
“Not even from your dreams?”
“No.”
“Hmm… well, I’m not sure what to say.” Fynn reached for his glass and took a big swallow.
“Neither am I.”
“Care to talk about your dreams?”
“I guess…” I hesitated. “It’s not something I like to do.”
“It could be important,” Fynn said and grasped my hand rather firmly. “Tell me more about your first dream.”
“Um… playing ultimate…”
“Oh yes, this frisbee football that you enjoy so much.” He gave off an amused chuckle and sat back. “Well, I recall this as well, but a bit differently.”
“How can you recall my dream?” I asked, perplexed.
“I seem to remember your game was cancelled that night.”
“What night?”
“Monday night, I believe... it was raining.”
“But it was a dream…”
“Perhaps not.”
“What then?”
Fynn shrugged as if he were helpless to answer the question. “Memories?” he offered.
“Memories? That’s crazy talk…”
“You are sure they are only dreams?”
What a question to ask. Then the enormity of what Fynn said hit me. If not dreams… memories? I sat brooding for a time… I could feel a bit of anger rising… It’s true. I had traveled to these places, not just dreamed them. “You promised you’d never lie to me. But you did… You did lie to me!” I said in a hoarse whisper.
“That’s rather harsh... I skillfully avoided your question,” Fynn said with a laugh. “You once asked me if you were a traveler. I replied with a question of my own: have you ever traveled before? And, I don’t think you ever answered me.”
“But Mortimer knew. That’s what he was talking about at the quarry. He knew me as a traveler.”
“He didn’t seem to recognize you.”
“No— but…” I had a hard time forming any coherent words.
“It seems to me you are flopping around like a fish out of water… Still it can’t be helped, I suppose.” Fynn paused to take another sip of whiskey. “I do wish you would sit still for a time. I cannot even figure out what sort of traveler you are.”
“What sort of traveler? You mean there are different kinds?”
“So I’ve been told,” Fynn said, smiling, then paused.
“Wait a second, I’m confused, really confused.”
“I’m not surprised at all, Patrick. Tell me though, what’s the very last thing you recall?”
“Um… an earthquake, someone told me… then I jumped out a window.”
“Who was this someone?”
“Hard to say exactly. It sort of seemed like me, or a version of me.” I paused to think. “Wait, I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Why not?” Fynn asked.
“He was taking me someplace else…”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, it sounds like a soft jump. You may have just returned from some future time.” Fynn made a face. “I think you’ve been quite lucky, Patrick, considering…”
“Considering what?”
“Considering what little you’ve told me and the scant memories you have.”
“Why am I lucky then?”
“Well, to return here and unscathed as it were.” Fynn smiled broadly. “They brought you back from the brink.”
“The brink of what?”
“Madness, I would venture to say.”
“How did I get here?”
“Sounds as if your carriers brought you back.”
“My carriers?”
“Soft jumps, different versions of yourself led you back to this place with your memories intact, more or less. Seems they treated you gently, kept your consciousness above their own— that is to say, they knew not to interfere with your memories.”
“Why?”
“They must have thought it important. Apparently they are far more experienced travelers than you.”
“Where did they go?”
“Go?”
“Where are they now?”
“An odd question… they are from the future. I don’t suppose they exist yet.”
“But I remember them, sort of.”
“Yes. They left your memory pristine.”
“This doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Nor should it,” Fynn said.
“So where are they?”
“Where can they be but in their own present?”
“Wow, soft jumps are not at all what you described to me. You made it sound so easy— it’s not at all like that.”
Fynn almost laughed. “No, I don’t suppose they are for you.”
“You might have warned me.”
“It’s something you must experience for yourself, eh?”
I sighed deeply. “I think I need another cup of coffee.”
“Something stronger, perhaps?”
“Coffee is fine.” I started to observe my surroundings more carefully. We seemed to be sitting in a small cafeteria. I saw a few murals on the wall, perhaps a map of the world. The humming seemed much louder than before, as if some huge motor was turning relentlessly. “Where is here exactly?”
“We are aboard an airship.”
“An airship? What’s that?”
“A dirigible.”
“Like a blimp?”
“Like a zeppelin, the Hindenburg.”
I chuckled a little; the band by that name came to m
ind and an image of their first album cover leapt to my memory. “Wait, a zeppelin? How could I be on a zeppelin?”
“It’s nineteen thirty-seven… We’ve been here for nearly five years now.”
“Here?”
“In this present.”
“Why does that not sit well with me?” I started laughing, not even sure why. I tried to concentrate… not a blimp, a zeppelin, the Hindenburg… “Holy crap, now I remember.”
“What?” Fynn asked, noticing my alarm.
“A terrible crash, a fiery explosion.”
“A deja vu?”
“No.”
“You survived this event?”
“No, I just remembered my history— something bad happens to the Hindenburg.”
“Ah, but which Hindenburg?” Fynn asked and sat back in his chair.
His question surprised me. “Which?”
“I seem to remember one was quite popular in its day.”
“What?”
“One was filled with hydrogen, the other with helium.” Fynn smiled slightly. “Do you see a single swastika anywhere?” he asked.
I looked around and he was right.
“No Nazis here… we’re quite safe, I assure you… this particular dirigible is filled with helium gas.”
Despite his assurance, I still felt ill at ease. This was definitely not my timeline.
“We are not in fact bound for New York, but Argentina.”
“Argentina?”
“Rio de Janeiro. I was going to wake you. The view is quite spectacular.”
I was thoroughly confused.
Fynn continued, “I’ve booked passage on a tramp steamer that will take us north, as far as Fairhaven and on to Sand City.”
“Sounds like the long way around.”
“I have every reason to believe Mortimer will be aboard this vessel.” Fynn let off a grim expression. “And, I can think of no better environment in which to confront him.”
“Trapped, you mean?”
“As you say. Or, failing that, we may have to jump back to nineteen thirty-three. Travel back to Sand City again.”
“Again?”
“You don’t recall the first time?”
“No, sorry.”
“Oh well, maybe it was your doppelgänger.”
“My doppelgänger? I thought you didn’t believe in those.”
“I’ve been compelled to reassess my previous ideas about such things.”