Time Knot

by M. C. Morison

  A voice spoke in my ear. Speaking in Swedish. Stop tickling, I tried to say. But the words had frozen in my chest and curled up and refused to move. Someone or something far away said, “Now we have you.” Maybe the schoolboy from hell? Maybe the fat priestess? Whoever spoke they were welcome to the tiny candle flame that remained of Rhory until it faded.

  “Rhory ran the wrong way,” Eira’s mother shouted as Håkan sprinted to the larger sleigh.

  The English boy had headed to where the river came in; there the water was warmer and the ice was thinner. Someone on the bank waved their arms about but the boy didn’t see, stumbling on to where the colour of the ice changed.

  Even before he sank, after the great cracking sound that sent lightning flashes of white lines across the ice under their feet and beyond, Håkan was tying the rope around her waist. Eira knew why. But he told her anyway.

  “You’re the lightest.”

  He took off his belt.

  “Hook this under his arms, thread the rope end through, tie it. Tie it well. Go now.”

  Eira walked with her lightest steps across the ice. Rhory still had his chest out of the water. As long as he could hold on she knew there was a chance. When she came within a few paces she lay down on the ice and edged forward, using her boots to push against the slippery surface, almost like swimming. She had the belt and rope in her hands. Her gloves lay on the ice, well behind her. She knew she could not tie knots with gloves on.

  Rhory couldn’t see her. He had slipped further and the dark stain of the water crept up his back and lay only a couple of handbreadths below his collar. Eira knew that in water this cold, he would by now be unable to move. She could hear him snorting, every breath a fight. Another loud cracking sound stopped her, but the ice remained firm. She edged forward.

  “It’s okay, Rhory. It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

  Getting the belt under his armpits proved to be easier from behind. He didn’t see her to grab at her to pull them both under. He didn’t sense her presence.

  “Tie the rope!” shouted her brother.

  Icy water flowed up her jacket sleeves as she pivoted onto her back. She had threaded the rope end through the belt, which she’d already fastened at his back. If he sank now he would pull her in headfirst. A simple knot would do as long as it didn’t slip. Her numb fingers wouldn’t obey. She started again. A crinkling, scraping noise filled her ears. She expected the dark waters to choke her any moment. She pulled. The knot held.

  “Now!” she shouted. “Pull now!”

  Already her body moved over the ice. The rope tightened around her chest. She lay staring up at the sky. Nothing moved. Then, as a swish of freezing water passed her, stinging her face, she jerked away from the bank towards the firmer ice by the sleighs.

  Did I dream? I don’t know. I had memories of being held by a woman. I thought an Ice Queen. I will be king of the dead where the icicles dwell. But the woman hurt me horribly with her warmth. My legs, back and arms screamed for mercy before I slept once again. When I woke the woman had gone. A dog lay to one side of me; I could tell by the smell and the fact it panted in my face and licked me when I turned that way. On my other side a boy, I think it must have been a boy, snuggled up. My teeth rattled a tattoo and my whole body shook.

  “He’s still so cold.”

  I woke in the night. Voices spoke quietly somewhere and a fire crackled nearby, sending shadows dancing crazily around the timbered ceiling. Out of the frying pan into the fire, except it should be out of the freezer into the fire. I hoped the timbers wouldn’t be set alight by fiery shadows.

  That night or next, I woke and felt something hard and warm by my knees. I tugged at it. Something heavy unwrapped and I burned my fingertips. At that moment I realised I’d survived. Whoever had done the saving had also put warm stones in the bed, wrapped in cloth.

  Someone rubbed my arms and prodded my legs.

  “No frost bite. Lucky this one. Very lucky. I thought at least he would lose his toes.”

  I went back to sleep. This conversation did little for my sense of well-being.

  Eira fed me soup. She scowled as she did it but grinned when I managed to swallow something. A woman I’d never seen before, with a flattish, nondescript face, gave me a hot drink. It burned down my throat, sending tiny streams of fire to all my limbs. I sat up.

  “Careful now,” she said.

  As she left the room she spoke to someone outside.

  “Feels like my own boy, this one. After all, I more or less suckled him.”

  This somewhat disturbing news came before a cackling. Three females laughing together, apparently at my expense. Not a sound I enjoy.

  “You can leave him here, Mistress Ekland, if you wish. We could do with a handy boy, once he’s learned to avoid the springs.” She cackled again. I retreated into sleep.

  The urgency of my bladder taught me to walk once more. Håkan held my arm and we crossed the snow to the midden. I peed and peed. Well, all the soup I’d eaten had to go somewhere. A smell of animal, straw and manure proved strangely comforting. Better alive in a stink than dead in a pure lake.

  “We must go,” said Håkan, his eyes a mixture of irritation, alarm and anger.

  “Where?” I said. I’d no idea where we were headed. Why hadn’t I asked? Perhaps I had. I found it hard to remember much before I went into the ice. “Is Dad coming?” I asked.

  “What? Who? My father?”

  “No,” I said, confused now where the thought had come from. “Sorry. It doesn’t matter.”

  “A group of hunters are going north. We will travel with them a bit.”

  “On the sleighs?”

  “No. It’s too steep on this side of the lake. The road runs on the western side. Here, on the east, the fishing villages connect with smaller tracks and it is much more hilly. We’ve sold the sleighs. We may buy them back, when…” He trailed off.

  “Where are we going then?”

  “North. We’ll be safe in the far north. The track by the lake is not snow-bound.”

  “Good.” I said. I figured I didn’t really have much choice. Someone had said I must go north. No idea why. Alexandria and the heat of Egypt were about as far away as they could be now.

  “We’ll ride. You will have your own pony, for a bit, until we change to skis. It’ll be easier. You can use skis, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes I can. I can do black runs.”

  Håkan looked at me as though I’d just spoken in toads and frogs.

  “Hard to explain,” I added. But skiing would be much easier for me than riding. In fact if I hadn’t gone to blooming Alexandria I would be skiing now, with hot chocolate to look forward to at the end of the day, plus a good movie on someone’s laptop.

  Palanquin Journey

  Alexandria – about 380 CE

  All three girls trembled and bounced. Anastasia fingered the beads at her neck and leaned forward to get a glimpse out between the blinds. A sudden lurch nearly put her on the floor. The three of them giggled.

  “I should have them whipped,” she said.

  “Who?” said Devorah.

  “The porters, silly.”

  “You would make a cruel mistress,” said Nysa. “Anyway Myrna wouldn’t let you.”

  “Then I’d have her whipped too,” said Anastasia, winking.

  “Yes, you and whose legions?” said Devorah. “I tell you this, I wouldn’t cross Myrna for the world. And Father would never let anyone beat her. She’s much too useful to him.”

  “I make a good mistress, actually,” said Anastasia, pouting towards Nysa. “My body maid loves me.” She wiggled her shoulders back and forth.

  “Well, you’d whip her if she didn’t,” said Devorah.

  Anastasia pouted some more and then all three girls dissolved into giggles. The palanquin stopped and Devorah pulled a gap open in the curtains.

  “It’s another of your Christian processions,” she said, pulling her head back in and
talking to Anastasia, “taking up the Emperor’s roadway.”

  Sounds of cymbals being clashed and horns blown combined with shouting and laughter.

  “Trouble is,” said Nysa, “these processions of yours often end up with heads being broken. And the heads are often ours.”

  “I know,” said Anastasia, her face pensive. She played with the beads at her throat. “I hate the violence. The teachings of the Nazarene do not allow such behaviour. He was a man of peace. A man who would turn the other cheek. A man who cherished all others.”

  “I wish all his followers would realise that and behave accordingly,” said Devorah. “Alexandria is not the safe place it once was.”

  “You sound just like my older sister,” said Anastasia.

  “My mother says the same,” said Nysa. “She says many Christians have become zealots. We all used to get on well and respect each other’s gods. But no more.”

  The curtains parted a little and Myrna’s face appeared. She smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  “We’re fine,” said Devorah. “How much longer?”

  Myrna held her finger and thumb a short distance apart.

  “You always say it’s a short distance,” said Anastasia.

  Myrna moved her head back and forth and pulled the curtains closed.

  “I forget she can’t speak sometimes,” said Anastasia. “It’s almost as though she does.”

  Nysa felt a strange glow in her chest. Am I the only one who can hear her? She didn’t want to ask her friends. The way Myrna’s words just floated into her mind still confused her. She didn’t doubt her experience, though. The words were so clear and Myrna responded to her inner talk, too.

  “Why doesn’t she ride with us?” asked Anastasia.

  “I invited her,” said Devorah. “She sometimes does when it is only me and her. I think she walks because the porters’ feet might sink into the road with four of us.”

  They started moving again and soon Nysa could feel that they were descending.

  “We’re going to the Harbour Palace?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Devorah, “the Lady sent word to Father that all three of us should meet her and the others at the east harbour.”

  “Have you been there before?” asked Nysa.

  Devorah glanced towards Anastasia and back at Nysa. She rubbed her nose. “I may have. Father’s work takes him all over and he knows the governor quite well.”

  “They say Cleopatra’s shade still walks in the gardens. Someone saw her once,” said Anastasia.

  “Did she actually live there?” said Nysa. “I thought her palace stood closer to the Serapeum.”

  “Well, she may have used it for ceremonial occasions, like all the old Ptolemies,” said Devorah, looking intensely at Anastasia, “but I’m told it has a smaller library and also a room designed by some old mathematician.”

  “What? Euclid? Oh, that would explain everything. That’s why the Lady wants us there. She positively loves Euclid.”

  “Even if he’s four hundred years old now or more.”

  “He eats sensibly and always waters his wine,” said Anastasia.

  The cry of sea gulls and the unmistakable aroma of fish told Nysa that they were close to their destination. A few moments later, the jolting stopped and the palanquin went still. Myrna drew back the curtains and unfastened the heavier cloth that formed a partial door. The girls emerged into the blinding dazzle of the sun.

  The bearers stood naked to the waist, glistening with sweat. One drank from the end of the leg of what once walked around as a goat, the thin stream of water or wine arcing into his mouth. Myrna smiled, little beads of perspiration on her upper lip. She pointed towards the palace.

  It stood on its own island, not as big as Pharos with its famous lighthouse but large enough for the impressive palace, gardens and a small temple to Artemis. It could only be approached by boat. Nysa studied the gap from the jetty to the large square in front of the palace steps, with their seated lions with raised paws resting on huge stone spheres. No doubt designed by Euclid to teach about conic sections, thought Nysa. She remembered someone telling her that the size of the gap was enough to prevent a galloping horseman from jumping over. The walls of the courtyard area rose sheer from the sea. On the side away from the shore, sharp rocks would break the sea’s winter fury, but today the deep blue waters gently lapped against them. The only way to the palace involved climbing steps up from another jetty on the palace side. The walls around the courtyard would provide a useful defence, thought Nysa, if any pirate should be so bold as to try. With the Macedonian barracks just off to the right, she doubted any sea raid would succeed long.

  “Come on, Nysa, stop daydreaming,” said Devorah. “Can’t you see Hypatia’s waiting?”

  The Lady Hypatia leaned against a wall, by the wide stairs ascending towards the great doors into the palace. A slave stood by her, holding a parasol to shade her face. Various young people gathered close by listening to her, but the distance meant Nysa couldn’t be sure if she knew all of them. She did recognise Angelos, taller by a head than Hypatia herself and distinctive with his shock of black hair falling in tight curls to near his shoulders. Although a Christian, like Anastasia, he knew her to be the finest teacher in Alexandria and absorbed her words like one of the sponges sold by the harbour.

  Myrna led them down to a small boat, and in a matter of minutes and a few swishes of the big oar at the back, the girls alighted on the steps leading up from the sea to the palace courtyard.

  Alexander’s Sword

  Even this early in the morning, the glare of the white stone flagging made the girls squint and Nysa could feel the warmth of the sun passing straight through her light clothing. When they crossed to where the Lady waited for them most of the other young people had already left and disappeared into the palace grounds.

  “This is your first visit I think, Nysa?” said Hypatia.

  “Yes,” said Nysa. “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you. The work you dancers are doing is wonderful and important. I’m not sure you quite understand how important.”

  Hypatia’s robe was drawn in under her bust and fell in graceful folds close to the ground. Her sandals, made of soft leather, peeked out. Her brown hair, arranged slightly differently every time Nysa had met her, had been gathered with beautiful grips and combs, and rose above her long neck. She was by far the most beautiful woman Nysa had ever seen. The girls all adored her, even though she didn’t smile easily. Her kindness always shone through and once she started talking she could carry anyone to places so magical, time just stopped.

  As they entered the palace grounds Hypatia turned to Nysa. “These gardens are my favourite place on earth, you know. The breezes from the sea, the calmness so close to the city but so separate, the shade from these wonderful trees.” She moved her arm gracefully towards the tall palms that cast dappled shadows on the stone seats, ornamental bushes and flower gardens.

  “Most of all I can sense the presence of the Divine Euclid.” She offered a radiant smile to Nysa, laughter playing around her eyes. “He did his most important work in these grounds, you know.”

  They climbed the steps at the end of the garden and passed through a grand portico into the darkness of the large reception room. As Nysa’s eyes adjusted, ghostly white shapes hovering off the ground turned into statues set in niches in the walls. The floor had an intricate design in mosaic, showing a muscular man in the central circle, wearing a lion skin and carrying a great club. At the corners of the room, smaller circles showed Herakles, Nysa guessed, fighting Hydras and cleaning stables and doing all his labours. An outer circular band of mosaics carried the symbols for the zodiac, so important to Hypatia’s teachings. As they passed through the room their footsteps and voices echoed. Nysa carefully avoided stepping on a face of coloured stone labelled ‘Poseidon’. You could never be too careful when close to the ocean.

  A door on the left led to a broad colonnade with a view over the sea. The
water shimmered in turquoise splendour, partly reflecting the pride of Alexandria, their great lighthouse. Nysa, squinting into the glare, could just about make out her father’s storage rooms on the far side of the great harbour. Further into the city the famous Library dominated all the other buildings nearby. Two galleys rested, anchored in the safety of the calm waters. A small skiff carried tiny figures towards the shore.

  Hypatia, Myrna and the three girls made their way along the colonnade. Angelos walked behind them. To their right, a beautiful carved double door stood partially open. Out of the corner of her eye Nysa saw Anastasia and Devorah exchange a glance and then look at the floor.

  “This is the library,” said Hypatia.

  “But the Great Li—”

  “Yes, Nysa, the Great Library is over there.” Hypatia extended her arm towards the curving waterfront of the city. “But this library held a special place in the heart of Ptolemy II. He wanted somewhere he could study and this library is not so widely known at all. In these difficult times that is just as well. But look…” She pointed above the door. There, held by large clasps of thick greenish metal, a sword had been fastened, its sharp leaf-like blade parallel to the ground.

  “That is the sword that actually cut the Gordian Knot.”

  “King Alexander’s sword?” said Nysa.

  “One of them,” responded Hypatia. “And the one he used on that famous occasion. You remember how no one could undo the knot, it had been tied so intricately, and Alexander just sliced through it? Well a prophecy says that as long as that sword is above that door this important library is safe.”

  The Lady paused and turned to Angelos. “I think these girls should see this library. Tell the curator I have sent them and ask if he can show them round. Once they have seen…” she paused and looked once more up at the sword, “…all they need to see, bring them to the Room of the Mathetai.”

  Angelos nodded, offering a very slight bow.

  “Come, fair maids. This is a privilege not even given to all princes. Remember not to chatter like starlings. People come here to study.”