The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  “Certain combinations do prove to be predictable,” Susanna murmured.

  Síomón managed a smile at the familiar exchange, which had hardly varied over the four years they had known one another. They had first met in the library, in a furious argument over a rare volume of mathematical theory. The argument had led to a debate, which led in turn to a lasting friendship. Susanna, dark and neat and practical, came from a wealthy family who had immigrated to Éire from Gujarat several generations ago. Evan was the son of a north county family that traced its antecedents back to the first Anglian Wars. He was tall and fair and angular, with looks so much like Síomón’s that many mistook them for brothers.

  “How was Gwen?” Evan asked.

  Síomón had to draw a breath before he could answer calmly. “The same as always.”

  Susanna laid a hand on his arm, lightly. Evan glanced around, then leaned close to Síomón. “An officer, from the Garda I believe, came by the library this morning. A man named Ó Deághaidh. I told him where he might find you. I hope that was right.”

  Síomón made a show of arranging his pens and books. “He’s with the Garda, Evan. Of course you did right.”

  He ought to tell them about Maeve, in spite of Ó Deághaidh’s orders, but he could not think how to phrase it without sounding trite. Did you hear the news? Maeve died last night. They say she was murdered by a lunatic.

  To his great relief, a door swung open at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Ó Dónaill, the senior lecturer in the graduate department for mathematics, stalked to his podium, his white hair floating behind him in an unruly halo. The next moment, a side door banged open. Seán Blácach, a third-year graduate student, darted through and made for an empty seat behind Síomón. Papers spilled from his books, and he had a hurried, disheveled look.

  “I’m sure someone robbed the city of all its cabs,” he muttered.

  Síomón shrugged, conscious of Evan’s sidelong glance and how Susanna had pursed her lips in obvious distaste. Blácach ordinarily did not speak to them, except in passing before exams. He was a student of the fringes, dabbling at his studies in between gambling and other questionable pursuits. His family had little money, and Síomón often wondered how he could afford to stay at university.

  Now Blácach leaned over his desk, between Evan and Síomón. “No luck today,” he whispered to them. “But I can try again tomorrow. Will that do?”

  His breath smelled sour, as though he’d been drinking already. Susanna shifted uncomfortably. Evan bent over his books, clearly unwilling to acknowledge Blácach. Reluctantly, Síomón glanced over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.

  Blácach smirked. “Oh, how very chaste we are today. I thought you two might not dare—”

  He broke off, and Síomón was abruptly aware of a thick silence in the lecture hall, and Professor Ó Dónaill gazing fixedly at them. “My apologies for being tardy,” Ó Dónaill said. “Please do not let it overset you, Mr. Madóc, Mr. Blácach.”

  Síomón pretended an overwhelming interest in his pens and papers. Blácach muttered something unintelligible, but sat down. Ó Dónaill nodded. “Today’s lecture,” he rapped out. “Electrical impulses and higher-order numbers. Mathematics? Numerology? Or gin fantasy?”

  Someone in the back row barked out a laugh. Ó Dónaill gazed steadily at the culprit, one eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps someone experimented with these theorems last night,” he said drily. “Indeed, that might explain your appearance, Mr. Blácach.”

  Evan coughed. Susanna, more discreet, covered her smile with her hand. The rest of the students settled into quiet, and with a last glance around the hall, Professor Ó Dónaill launched into the day’s lecture.

  * * *

  The first incident took place during the winter holidays, shortly after their nineteenth birthday. Síomón had attended his first semester at university, having bypassed the usual courses for several advanced classes. Gwen had elected to remain at Gleanntara with their aunt and uncle, pursuing her private research.

  When he arrived home from the train station, Síomón learned that Gwen had not yet returned from her walk. He would find her in the gardens, his aunt said, or perhaps rambling about the fields. There was an odd note of reserve in his aunt’s voice, as if she wished to say more. Another quarrel, he thought. Gwen had written about their aunt’s increasing attempts to transform her into a proper young woman.

  He set off in search of his sister. It was a chill February afternoon, with the sunlight fading into dusk. Snow had fallen overnight, blanketing path and field. After casting about, Síomón soon found her trail. Footprints led him through the topiary, past the sunken garden with its pool lying silvery and quiescent beneath the gray skies. Once or twice, he thought he saw a flickering movement between the evergreen shrubs, but when he called out Gwen’s name, no one answered.

  More anxious now, he entered the woods beyond. All the day’s light had leaked away from the sky, and dull gray shadows masked the trees and other familiar landmarks. Once, he smelled a fox’s musky scent, then a strange coppery tang, which sent his pulse racing in dread. “Gwen,” he called out. Only to hear the high shrill call of the fox, and the whispering of snow over snow.

  He found her, at last, huddled under a thornbush near the gamekeeper’s old hut. She was barefoot, dressed only in a thin shift. The tatters from her winter frock hung from one of the bushes; her cloak and her boots were discarded to one side. Gwen herself was like a pale gray stone.

  Síomón knelt beside his sister. “Gwen?” he said softly. “Gwen, what happened?”

  Gwen looked around vaguely. She must have been here for hours, Síomón thought. Her skin was red, her lips chapped, and tears gleamed in her eyes. It was a miracle she was not dead from the cold. She reached out, and he caught her hand. The touch of another human must have recalled her from that daydream, because she shuddered, and her gaze sharpened with sudden clarity.

  “It was a number, Síomón. I followed it.…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she frowned, as though confused.

  Síomón touched her arm gently. “Gwen,” he said. “Did someone hurt you?”

  Her eyes went wide and blank. Her mouth worked, as though she would speak.

  Then she screamed.

  * * *

  I was a coward. I said I was fetching my uncle, but in truth I was running away.

  Síomón tapped his pencil against his palm in an irregular rhythm. A blank sheet of paper faced him, one edge darkened where he’d rubbed his thumb absentmindedly. Unable to face ordinary conversation with Evan and Susanna, he’d sequestered himself in the library, leaving only to take supper at a nearby tavern. Now the mutton lay heavily in his stomach, and the overcooked vegetables had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  Maeve was dead. The phrase echoed inside his head. Strange, he still could not quite take in that she was gone.

  He glanced out the window. A harvest moon hung low in the sky, its orange disc sharply drawn against the black night. He and his uncle had called the doctors that same day; within a week, they had removed Gwen from Gleanntara to the hospital in Awveline City in the far south of Éire. Only the best for her, he thought now. The best drugs. The best treatment—

  The floorboards creaked behind him. Síomón twisted around to see Evan De Mora standing quite close. Evan’s face was drawn tight; his eyes were like blue moons against the whites of his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Maeve?” he said.

  Síomón hesitated, not certain how to reply. Evan must have mistaken his silence for a refusal to answer, because his mouth twitched into a grimace. “Confused, Síomón? That’s not like you.”

  “No, I—”

  “That’s why that officer wanted you, isn’t it? He told you about Maeve.”

  “He did. He asked me not to say anything until tomorrow. Who told you?”

  “Her sister.” Evan pressed both hands against his cheeks, as though to suppres
s an ache. “I thought it peculiar when I heard about Ó Néill’s assembly tomorrow,” he said in a muffled voice. “Even when I didn’t see Maeve at her afternoon lectures, I didn’t think anything amiss. I knew she was spending extra time with her advisers, and that I’d see her at supper. It wasn’t until she didn’t show that I—”

  His voice broke. Síomón started to speak, but Evan waved for him to stay silent. He soon mastered himself. “I went to her rooms. Her sister was there with a crowd of servants, packing Maeve’s belongings. She told me what happened.”

  His cheeks were wet with tears. Síomón touched Evan’s arm and felt him trembling beneath the apparent control. “Evan, I’m sorry.”

  His friend drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you. Whatever that means. I was so angry. Not with you. With—”

  “I understand,” Síomón said softly. “Come. It’s nearly ten. We’ll go back to my rooms for coffee.”

  Evan wiped a hand over his eyes. “I would like that.”

  Síomón collected his books from his desk, and together they retrieved their gowns and coats from the closet on the first floor. The college bells were ringing ten o’clock as they bid good night to the porter.

  Outside, the wind had picked up, damp and raw with the promise of rain. Clouds raced across the moon’s face, and the green was nothing more than a black expanse, with the library at their backs, and the several junior dormitories lining either side. At the far end of the quad lay Begley Hall and a cluster of smaller buildings for Anglian Studies. Síomón and Evan buttoned their overcoats and turned up their collars before venturing from the portico’s shelter.

  Evan shivered. “Last week I boiled in the lecture halls.”

  “It’s the turning point of seasons,” Síomón said. The sound of the wind sifting through leaves recalled Gwen’s voice, reciting her numbers, and he had the unsettling impression of memories blurring together, like photographs of dancers whirling across the stage. He shook his head to dispel the sensation.

  They set a fast pace across the empty green, while leaves whirled about them. Few students were about at this hour, and though most of the upper floors of the dormitories were alight, the grounds themselves were nothing more than shadows. Síomón could taste rain in the air. Soon frost would silver the pathways, the winds would strip the trees completely, and the world would become like an ink sketch, with sharp black lines and shades of gray.

  A harder gust caught him full in the face. Síomón ducked his head, blinking away tears. Ahead, he heard Evan’s footsteps slow, then come to a stop.

  “Síomón.”

  Síomón looked up to see Evan pointing toward a spot farther ahead. Squinting against the wind, he made out a dark mass sprawled upon the brick walkway. Whatever it was lay motionless, except for a fluttering edge of cloth, as though a blanket or cloak had worked loose from the body’s weight.

  His skin prickled. We don’t know it’s a body.

  Evan retreated a few steps and took hold of Síomón’s hand. “How cold you are. Can you manage? We cannot go without seeing what has happened.”

  Síomón gripped Evan hard. The warmth of his friend’s hand revived him, and together they approached the thing on the walkway. No, not a thing. A man. Síomón could make out the head, resting on the grass. One arm was invisible beneath the cloak, the other extended, as though reaching for something in the last moments of life.

  Evan knelt and pulled back the cloak, exposing the face. “It’s David Levi.”

  Síomón couldn’t make sense out of his words at first. David? Dead? Numb with disbelief, he knelt beside Evan and touched David’s face, which looked gray and stark beneath the strong moonlight. Blood trickled from the slack mouth, painting a black trail over David’s cheek and onto his collar. Síomón jerked back his hand.

  “We must find a garda,” Evan said.

  “Shouldn’t we call a doctor first?”

  “He’s dead, Síomón. A doctor cannot help him.”

  Evan’s voice sounded muffled and strange. The wind, Síomón thought, or was it the pounding in his temples that distorted his friend’s voice? He stumbled to his feet, then fell down, sprawling to avoid David’s body.

  “Síomón, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  Evan gripped his arm and pulled him upright. “It’s the body,” he said. “You’re faint because of the blood. Am I right?”

  Síomón shook his head. “I don’t know.” He gulped down a lungful of cold air. Another. He was about to say he felt better, when he saw a shadow among the trees, not ten feet away. At first, he thought it was just branches, swaying in the wind, but then the moon broke through the clouds, and he distinctly saw the figure of a man.

  “Evan, look,” he whispered.

  Evan straightened up. “What do you see?”

  The stranger spun around and darted into the ink-black divide between Begley Hall and the nearest dormitory.

  “Stop!” Síomón called out. He sprinted after the man, ignoring Evan’s shout. The man dove into an alleyway behind the next building. MacAuliffe, it was. The lane led directly to the front of the college, Síomón remembered. Once the murderer was clear of that, he could vault over the iron fence and vanish into a maze of streets. Síomón paused, breathing hard. I must not fail. Not now. Not so close.

  Before he could take that next step, however, Evan yanked him to the ground.

  “Are you mad?” Evan wheezed, falling to his knees beside Síomón. “What were you doing?”

  “Didn’t you see him?” A cramp took hold of Síomón. He doubled over, retching.

  “Who? I see that you’re sick. Here, let me wipe your face.” Evan took out a handkerchief and cleaned away the mud and vomit.

  Síomón pushed Evan’s hand away. “There. Can’t you see him? There!”

  He pointed frantically toward the lane. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the space between the two buildings, plainly showing the man at the far end, but just as Evan turned, the stranger vanished around the corner.

  * * *

  “Tell me where you spent the afternoon, Mr. Madóc.”

  Síomón pressed both hands against his eyes. Hours had passed since he and Evan had tracked down the night sentries and led them to David’s body. By now he wished only for the solitude of his rooms.

  “I was in the library,” he said, “writing up notes from Professor Ó Dónaill’s lecture. I—how much do you want to hear?”

  “Everything. Do not worry about boring us, Mr. Madóc.”

  “Yes. I see. Well then.” Síomón massaged his face. Though he had scrubbed his face and hands in the Garda lavatory, he could still smell the blood and vomit on his skin. “I spent some hours writing my notes. Around seven o’clock I went out to supper, then returned directly to the library. May I have a glass of water?”

  Ó Deághaidh signaled the nearest uniformed garda, a sergeant, who fetched a tin cup filled to the brim. Síomón drank half the cup in one swallow, grimacing at its metallic taste. Once he and Evan had notified the college patrols, the city’s gardaí had arrived promptly and hurried them off to a station on the north side of Awveline City. He had not seen Evan since they entered the building. Indeed, he’d had no other company besides Commander Ó Deághaidh and his three gardaí. For all he could tell, it was nearly morning, but his own internal clock said an hour past midnight.

  Ó Deághaidh waited patiently until Síomón set the cup down. “You attended Professor Ó Dónaill’s lecture after we parted,” he continued. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Evan De Mora can tell you that I was there. Susanna Patel can as well—”

  “And if I need confirmation, I shall surely ask them. This moment, I wish to hear your account. Did you walk to the university or ride?”

  “I took a cab.”

  “Directly to the lecture?”

  “No, not directly. Cabs aren’t permitted on the grounds. In any case, my rooms are in the square opposite the East Gates. I stopped by
to fetch my gown and notebooks for the lecture.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing. No, wait. I had promised a book for Susanna.”

  “Did you encounter anyone, talk to anyone, between your rooms and the lecture hall?”

  Síomón shook his head. “No. No one.”

  Ó Deághaidh studied him a moment. His eyes, which had appeared so warm that afternoon, had turned hard and glittering in his weathered face. It was, Síomón thought, as though Ó Deághaidh had stripped away every superfluous quality, leaving behind only that relentless curiosity.

  “Very well,” Ó Deághaidh said. “What next? You came to the lecture hall. Whom did you first see?”

  They covered Síomón’s activities from when he and Ó Deághaidh parted by the Blackwater, to when the gardaí arrived at the murder scene. Throughout, Ó Deághaidh’s voice remained calm, his manner detached, but his attention to detail was meticulous. In the background, Síomón could hear the scratch of pens moving over paper. Two gardaí were taking notes in parallel, as though Ó Deághaidh did not trust the account to a single chronicler. Another, the one who had fetched him the tin of water, simply waited and listened.

  Eventually they reached the point when Evan De Mora approached Síomón in the library.

  “What was the hour?” Ó Deághaidh asked.

  “Near ten. I remember the hour bell ringing just as we left the library.”

  “And how would you say Mr. De Mora appeared?”

  Síomón paused, the tin cup in hand. “Upset, of course.”

  “At you?”

  “No!” Síomón slammed the cup onto the tabletop, sloshing water over the sides. Hands shaking, he mopped up the spill with his handkerchief. “I apologize for my outburst, Commander. It’s been a long day.”

  “To be sure, Mr. Madóc. We are all a bit weary and shaken. Tell me, if you can, exactly how Mr. De Mora appeared. Upset, you said. Did he seem angry? Grieving? Nervous?”

  His mouth tasted like cotton, but Síomón resisted the urge to request more water. “Do you suspect him? Surely not?”

  Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s expression remained bland. “I suspect everyone, Mr. Madóc. Did you know David Levi?”