by MK Alexander
“No. Should it have done?”
“I don’t know, I was thinking about some kind of magnetic vortex.”
“Perhaps it did go to the past and has remained there. Looks a bit tarnished to me.” He smiled.
I was about to leap down and retrieve the coin but Fynn stopped me with his hand against my chest. “No, no, not yet. It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“You must only jump at the right time.”
“When is that?”
“I’ll have to check the ephemeris. The window is open for only eleven minutes so to speak… and we’ll have to wait a few hours before it’s in the correct position.”
“Are you saying this whole thing moves?”
“Yes, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, very much like the hour hand of a clock. Quite ingenious. Even Mr Mekanos doesn’t know who built it, though perhaps he is being modest.”
“So, he did build it?”
“It’s possible that he just doesn’t remember, or perhaps he has yet to remember building it.”
I ignored the implications of that. “How accurate is it?”
“It depends on how well you jump.”
“Really?”
“I’ve come as close as half a sidereal day.”
“You’ve done this before?’
“Only once or twice.”
“Do I detect a reluctance in your voice, Fynn?”
“I avoid using the temple at all costs.”
“Why is that?”
“Aside from being notoriously unreliable?”
“I thought you just said it was extremely accurate.”
“Well, yes. Quite exact in that respect. Certainly your mind, your consciousness travels here with great precision. But I sometimes wonder if one’s soul might be left behind.”
“Wait a second, and you expect me to jump from here?”
“It’s perfectly fine for a hard jump, the height of convenience, I would say. There is only a problem with soft jumps. There something unsavory about the whole business— unnatural, I would say.”
“You’ll have to explain what you mean.”
“Yes, I suppose I should…” Fynn made a face before continuing, “An unpleasant side-effect, so to speak.”
“Unpleasant?”
“Too kind a word perhaps… If one already exists in the present, one’s awareness must travel to here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, to the temple, this exact spot.”
“And why is that bad?”
“Well… for instance, when I first traveled back from the North Hollow beach, it was a soft jump. I found myself in my office, in Ottawa. After only a few minutes I was able to pick up where I left off. I made a cup of tea and finished up some work on a case. I had a meeting with the Superintendent, and later went on a pleasant stroll along the Rideau Canal. Of course, from there, I began planning for our rendezvous in Sand City.”
“Sounds like a full day.”
“Indeed. If, however, I were to employ a temple jump, I would sacrifice my concurrency, so to speak.”
“What would happen?”
“Instead of finding myself in Ottawa, my Canadian self would find himself here… it’s a sort of merging, I would say.”
“And the result?”
“I would no longer be Canadian.”
“What would you be?”
“Not to put too fine an edge on it, I would be dead.”
“What the hell, Fynn?”
“The Canadian version of me would cease to exist, instead it would be transferred here… leaving an empty husk sitting at my desk. Not at all pleasant.”
“You mean a corpse?”
“Yes.”
“Why does this happen?”
“I am supposing two minds cannot exist in the same present.”
“I thought jumping here makes doppelgängers… that’s what Madeline and the Brigadier told me.”
“That’s a rather different process,” Fynn said. “If one is inside the library, they are not truly in the present. Hence the doubling effect.”
“Brigadier Thomas says if you jump here you’ll smack up against the cliffs.”
“Yes, quite dangerous, especially if you are inexperienced— But, that’s more about jumping to the future.”
“You’re absolutely sure it’s safe?”
“Yes… for you at least. It necessarily has to be a hard jump.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll take a more circuitous route.”
“Why?”
“I have built some considerable continuity here. When I jump, I’d like to find myself back at my desk in Ottawa.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll have Ming drive me down to the valley. There is a good place to jump there. I’ll be back in Canada in the blink of an eye.”
“What about Miami?”
“Rest assured, Patrick, I will be on the train. We shall meet at exactly nine pm in Pennsylvania Station. The main concourse, on February tenth, Friday. That should give us plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
“To make the ten o’clock train for Florida.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’ll book us a private compartment.”
“Okay, I guess I’m ready then.”
“We still must wait, Patrick.”
“Till when?”
“Sunset,” Fynn said and took out a pocket watch.
“What’s that?”
“The Brigadier’s watch, which I also borrowed,” he replied.
“You’re absolutely sure this is safe?”
“Courage, Patrick.”
“Right… I’m not feeling very brave.”
“What could go wrong?” Fynn asked with a smile.
“I don’t want to tempt fate.”
“Fate? Patrick, surely by now, you realize there is no such thing… only free will.”
* * *
chapter thirty-three
dust bowl
It almost seemed as if I had been wandering the prairie for days; flopping around like a fish, just as Fynn had described, and with no real result. Worse, I couldn’t quite recall how I had arrived here— wherever here was. I only knew it was colder than I expected.
I fought hard to call up my last memories, like trying to remember a dream. They were from the Chicago World’s Fair, The Century of Progress… I had seen many pavilions, some more amusing than others— the astronomical exhibit stuck in my mind, some guy giving a speech about gravity. I had also met at least two charming women, another Frances, and a Sally, one a singer and one a dancer, though I couldn’t recollect which was which. Last I remember, it was the middle of the night and I had just finished eating a big ball of cotton candy. I jumped from a small park beside the shore of Lake Michigan.
These memories seemed intact, but then again who could say what I’d forgotten. There was something nagging me about February… I couldn’t even recall how I got the clothes I was wearing, but I was certainly dressed weird: baggy trousers, a flannel shirt and suspenders. In my pockets I found a few gold coins, sovereigns by the look of them, a toy compass and my knife as well, a gift from Fynn.
I wasn’t entirely sure if I had jumped back in time or frontwards, relatively speaking at least… I do know it was a hard jump— searing pain being the big clue. This time, my feet hit firm ground, my knees buckled and I rolled to a stop. I sat for a moment to take stock of the new surroundings. My gaze fixed upon the sky. It seemed to be red. Behind me I found the sun fairly low to the horizon, giant, dull and crimson. I couldn’t tell immediately if it was setting or rising. I felt completely turned around, disorientated. I had lost my sense of direction; everything seemed backwards. I checked the toy compass: west… a setting sun. It would be dark soon enough and I would have stars, stars enough to navigate by.
I could be anywhere, was my first thought, but that was hardly true. I did a slow three sixty. The horizon was exac
tly the same in every direction: flat. So was the scenery: tired dry earth, cracked from drought, thirsty for rain. The ground had fractured into jagged puzzle pieces, a jigsaw that stretched into ever smaller bits and disappeared into a blur. I was on a vast plain. The Midwest jumped to mind, Kansas, or any other relentlessly flat midwestern state. It was a place that should have been lush and vibrant but was not.
I dusted myself off the best I could and spotted a hat nearby. It was a nice fedora and seemed to fit perfectly. Whether I was closer to home, or farther, was beyond me knowing, but a plan began to form in my mind. I would jump again, but not blindly jump. And I could, with a little luck, jump closer to home. I just had to find a high-enough place.
I decided to wait till nightfall when I could map the stars… I would orientate myself. Okay. But where am I now? It’s the midwest, it has to be… but when? There was no sign of habitation, no crops growing, no farm houses, telephone poles or roads… I did spot a single tree standing alone far to the west; probably a tree, it was hard to tell from this distance, but it made perfect sense to start walking towards it.
All this time, a gentle breeze had been blowing in from the east. Now I realized it had suddenly stopped. The air was dead still. I hadn’t walked more than a few yards when I noticed the light had also changed. That is, it grew darker, like a cloud had just obscured the sun. I looked up, it was still an angry red color but a distinct disk, and then, in just a few seconds it disappeared, and not below the horizon. As I watched, the sun was swallowed by a looming mountain that rose above the ground. A moving mountain? I asked myself. No, it must be a storm… though it was hard to believe the massive wall that was quickly building to such a height could be made of clouds. From out of nowhere, but surely from the west, a new wind rose. It was hot and dry, and stung my face with tiny pricks. This was no ordinary breeze. I was being pelted.
My initial instinct was to run, and to the east, away from approaching doom. But logic dictated that I run into the fray, west towards disaster, to the tree, my only chance of escape: a high branch. I sprinted the best I could along the fractured ground, stumbling on occasion while the storm grew ever more fierce and furious. I used both my arms as a shield against the stinging wind, stopping once in a while to catch my bearings. Breathing was an increasingly difficult task as I was enveloped by a suffocating blackness, a wall of dirt.
The tree was closer now. I veered towards it and clambered to the highest branch I could reach. No blind jump, huh? I asked the question almost out loud. I quickly checked the compass and decided on north. I flung myself to the ground and hoped and prayed... It felt a bit like a soft jump… the feeling of oblivion was just about the same; trouble was, I hadn’t leapt anywhere. In fact I was laying on the ground, huddled against the raging storm. The wind tore through me in a most unexpected way. I felt as if I was dissolving— my very atoms, my molecules dissipating with the wind. This was not good. While it was not a wholly unpleasant feeling, it was certainly alarming to watch myself disappear like so much dust. Oddly, for a brief moment, I felt like I was holding something heavy in my hand, a suitcase maybe.
***
No jump could have been easier. I saw my target— well, not really— it was my destination. I grabbed my bag, took a breath and aimed for Friday in the month of February, by my reckoning, six months and a few days. This was easy. I leapt off the high ledge.
Nothing seemed to happen at all, though I tasted cotton candy. When I looked around it was clear that the seasons had changed completely. Summer became winter in a single instant. The trees were suddenly bare; I saw some old snow on the ground, and a cold wind was biting through my inadequate clothes. There was a bright blue afternoon sky. I could also smell something burning. I looked north to the top of the cliffs and saw a huge plume of thick black smoke rising from a single source. I was pretty sure it was coming from the library.
With no hesitation I ran along the path that led to the waterfall. Up the troll-hewn steps, I stumbled a bit and dropped my duffle bag. But when I looked to the landing there was a dark figure looming over me. I was startled to say the least. He was a tall, lanky man, slightly stooped and wearing a tuxedo. He held a top hat in his hands and a book. A black cape trailed nearly to the ground. It seemed at first that he was not quite dressed for the present, yet he may have just stepped out of a Busby Berkley movie or a fancy dress party. I began to convince myself it was Mortimer.
“Who the devil are you?” he shouted down at me. “And why are you following me?”
“That’s probably not important,” I said and pointed. “Look.”
The man turned and glanced up to the cliffs. “Herios Gamos,” I heard him say, though not sure what that meant. We stood together for a brief moment staring at the huge pall of black smoke as it billowed from the heights. I rushed up the path taking long strides, stumbling on the frozen trail. I could hear the stranger following. By the time we reached the clearing we could both see the library had been decimated. The fire was over in a flash. Only a few thin columns of smoke tailed into the sky from the center pyramid structure.
I took a moment to scrutinize this visitor. At first he looked a bit like Mortimer but on closer inspection I could tell he was not. He was shorter first of all, and second, he had a long angular face. His haircut was decidedly different: the sides were shaved and that left only an unruly tuft of steely curls perched atop his head.
“Given how quickly time flows in the deep stacks, I suppose the fire spread with some rapidity,” the man observed with a dry tone.
“The Brigadier, Madeline…” I blurted and took off towards the house.
“No one could have survived this…” the man said breathlessly as he kept pace.
I turned to the stranger and asked, “What day is it?”
“How should I know?” he replied and there was certainly something hostile in his tone.
We rushed across the circular driveway and drew closer to the smoldering ruins. The empty husk of the mansion was still discernible, though much of that had collapsed in on itself. Aside from a few glowing embers and wisps of smoke, the fire had ended as quickly as it had begun. I scrambled over the charred remains of the grand hallway. The fireplace and chimney were still standing more-or-less, but I moved towards a tiny fragment of intact balustrade.
“Don’t step there,” the stranger warned and stopped me with his arm. He was holding something like a library paddle and it was glowing orange. I had an intense desire to peer down into the nautilus, to see what, if anything remained. For now all I could discern was a gaping bottomless pit. The man helped me to my feet and we stepped through the debris, back to the edge of the scene. One part of the mansion was left standing. We sat together on a bit of stone wall.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I am bringing a book.”
“What book?”
“A biography of Georges Lemaître, if you must know.”
“Who are you?”
“The Inquisitor.”
“Really?” I burst out laughing and the man took some offense. “That’s your name?”
He looked quite dejected and sat silently, slump shouldered. I felt terrible for laughing at him. “Don’t you have a name, like, a regular name?”
“I have many names… the Collector, the Inquisitor, the Quantifier…”
“They seem more like titles… What did your mom call you?”
“Hmm, I can only recall a few pet names from early childhood.”
“That won’t do.”
“You see my conundrum?”
“I’m starting to.”
“I’ve had so many names over the years… It’s difficult to choose one and stick with it.” He began to recite a long list: “Jasvir Gingery… Bodo Biermonger… Zoltan Istavani…”
I shook my head no to each of them. He continued, “Gundestrup Hertzog, Harlan Poelzig… Hjalmar Ellison…”
“None of those exactly roll off the tongue.”
�
�This is precisely why I have no name at present.”
“What if I want to call you on the phone? What do I say other than hello?”
“I have no telephone.”
“Everyone needs a name… I just can’t call you buddy…”
“That’s rather an impudent thing to say.”
“Sorry… So, you’d prefer that people reference you only by your title, in the third person? Not even Mr Inquisitor?”
“Yes and no.” He paused. “I suppose I do tend to keep people at arm’s length.”
“That’s just silly.”
“Most people call me sir.”
“How about something really simple, like Al or Ed?”
“I find no dignity in those.”
“How about Sam the Sentinel?”
“I do like that as a title…but must it be Sam?”
“Okay,” I said, feeling exasperated. “If it’s just a title then, I’d go with Quantifier.”
“You think that’s best?”
“Yes… sort of a neutral word.”
“Not Inquisitor?”
“Has some negative connotations.”
“Does it? Why?”
“The Spanish Inquisition?”
“Hmm, I wasn’t expecting that…” he said and paused. “Very well, Quantifier it is.”
“Still, it would be better if you had another name too.”
“Such as?”
“Well, something like Jack the Quantifier…”
“I will consider your advice. Perhaps I will find a first name to suit me.”
“Mr Quandary,” I blurted.
“What?” he asked severely and turned to me with an odd expression.
“Might be a good name for you.”
“Hmm… I rather like that…”
“Well, I’m Patrick.”
“Patrick?”
“That’s my first name.”
“I see…”
“I’m a friend to Madeline and the Brigadier, not to mention Tractus Fynn.”
“How fortunate for you.”
We sat in silence for several awkward moments. I was shivering in the cold. “May I ask a question?”
“And what would that be, Patrick the Pesterer?”
“I’m thinking you’re the guy who can tell me how all this stuff works?”