by IGMS
Edith knew how the multiverses felt; she wondered that they didn't simply collapse altogether of their own accord. Emotions and desires fought a bloody battle, tearing her insides apart slow bit by slow bit, while passersby were none the wiser. Perhaps she would spontaneously explode and split her own soul off from the rest of this nonsense. She placed her hand over the hollow in her stomach at the thought. No. Not explode. Implode.
She could see him there, across the University courtyard, alone on a bench beneath the trees. A strongish breeze stirred the autumn leaves around his feet. He nodded to the errant professors who walked past. He waited for someone, looked for her, straightened his vest and jacket for the thirteenth time, tried to appear casual and not desperate. Little did he know her heart was already beside him, touching him, holding him, breathing in the same copper and ozone air. She could still feel his lips on hers, taste the blood and rain and passion she had betrayed on the riverbank. He had asked her not to come, so many times, yet here she was, and she cracked into pieces every time she looked at him. She alone had been the ruination of the man she loved, and he had ordered her to stay away from him. To change her future and his past. Because she loved him, she had ignored him, every time.
She should leave.
Here and now, just like every other meeting after that fateful morning, they had never fought. In this time and place his love was innocent and hopeful. This young Edward believed in her, and himself, and the possibility that somehow, one day, even if not in this lifetime, they would be together. It was a romantic notion: that she might be able to travel beyond the boundaries of the Second Kingdom and see the Known World, hand in hand with her soul mate.
Who was she to think she had any power at all over the flow of time or the path of fate? Who's to say that by not meeting him he wouldn't be ruined all the same? She'd certainly read enough empirical evidence to suggest that she wouldn't affect his destiny one way or the other. Their destinies.
Damn and Blast.
She should just march right over there. She couldn't fight fate, but she at least had to try. For him. Because he'd asked. She should leave.
"Hullo." His greeting was fragile and timid. It was out of her hands now.
She launched herself into his arms and felt his chuckle vibrate through her breastbone. "I wasn't sure you remembered me."
Oh no. No no no no no. This could not be the last. Her breath left her. Her body ached. It was too much. Edith gasped a hysterical sob and wept into his shoulder.
"Hey . . . hey," he held her tightly and rubbed her back. "It's all right. Whatever it is. I promise it will be all right."
It most definitely would not be all right. But right now, here in his arms, she could pretend. She tried to contain herself. She wanted him to remember her as a goddess, not a wet handkerchief. She smiled as he handed her a dry one. Always the gentleman.
Her breath hitched against her will. She wiped her nose and prayed she didn't look as wretched as she felt. "Forgive me," she said, and in those words asked his clemency for far more than the fault of acting the damsel in distress. "I've had a stressful morning and --"
"-- and then I went and gave away that our next meeting will be your last. It is I who should be asking forgiveness."
"You know me so well."
"I always have," he said cheekily.
"And you always will." Edith did her best to set aside her inner turmoil and remember what their second meeting had been like for her, the things he'd said, how he must have felt. How he must be feeling right now. It was so long ago . . . and yesterday at the same time. She could remember brilliant purple wildflowers still blooming along a cobblestone path and how the deep crease in his brown betrayed his concern . . . ah. Judith's Bat Mitzvah. Well, he certainly hadn't changed the path of his own fate by not seeking her out; how could he have expected her to do the same?
How had he started that conversation? Had he asked her forgiveness then? She thought maybe he had. All she could think to say now was, "I'm older than you."
"That didn't bother you before."
"No, I expect it didn't." And then she remembered: he had introduced himself. "I'm a professor here at the University."
Edward laughed. "Edie, dearest, I know that."
"'Dearest?' My, I must have made some impression on you."
"You did." Those green-grey eyes twinkled. Oh, how she'd miss that.
"I should make a list of all these things I've told you, so I remember to say them in future. In the past, rather. Damn and Blast, this never stops being confusing."
"Try not to think about it."
She laughed. "You've said that to me before. Many times."
"Perhaps I should make my own list," he said.
"Perhaps." She should tell him about the barn. "Write this down as well: Ten o'clock in the morning. The barn by the river."
"The old hay barn?"
"The very one."
"One year hence? Two?" She hesitated and he pleaded, much like she had in the days of her innocence. "Please, you must tell me. The waiting is so painful."
"Two years hence. And the year after that, and the year after that. Or two . . . I can't remember." She hated herself, knowing every word she spoke damned him to her fate.
"Thank you, dearest. Oh, that reminds me! I have a present for you."
Edith smiled and tried her best to memorize ever moment now, while at the same time trying to remember everything that had happened before. How distraught he must have been to arrive empty-handed the night he'd said his goodbye.
She didn't wince when he placed a book in her hands. No slim volume this one; it was large and weighty and all too familiar.
"Gladney and Coulter's Multiverse Metaphysics and Metaphilosophy," he announced proudly, "Nodnol edition. As promised."
Edith's nerves quieted. What else could this be but a message to herself to lighten the mood? "Thank you, Edward."
"I read it, too." He was so sweet. Like a puppy trying to impress her.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Once you get past the egos and the doublespeak, it's really rather fascinating. It inspired me to look more into Universal Bridge Theory."
Of course it had. What a fool she was.
"Perhaps you can help me. One of the more interesting passages referenced the theories of a text I'm not sure exists. At least, it doesn't seem to exist in Nodnol."
"Who's the author?" She wanted to kick herself the moment the words were out of her mouth.
"E. L. Morgenstern."
"Never heard of him," she lied.
"Her," he corrected.
"Sorry?"
"Morgenstern was a woman. Doctor Edith Langtree Morgenstern. Edith. Isn't that funny?"
"What a coincidence."
"Apart from that" -- he pointed to the book she clutched to her breast -- "I can't seem to find any evidence of her at all. It's very strange."
"Perhaps you're looking in the wrong universe," she said.
"Perhaps," he mused. He seemed to catch her wistful glance and perked up. "Come now, what are we doing lingering here speaking of stuffy dead scholars? The night is young . . . and so am I, it would seem."
Edith laughed. "So it would seem."
"Then let's shake off these somber robes, go find some ghosts and goblins, and make with the merry. What do you say?"
"I say that's a fine idea, young man," she teased.
"May I carry that heavy book for you, Professor?" he teased right back.
"Yes, please."
"Edie?" he asked more tentatively.
"Yes, Edward?"
"May I hold your hand?"
Her heart fell into dust, imploding and exploding all over again. "Yes, please."
Well, if it was going to happen anyway, she was going to have fun.
The difference between men and women was that an act which would turn the latter off immediately would not necessarily dissuade the former. Therefore, the moment Edward materialized in her study, Edith step
ped right up and kissed him soundly.
"And to think," said Edward when they came up for air, "I actually resisted coming to the Second Kingdom. It's lovely to meet you, Miss . . .?"
"Professor Edith Hornby," she said, enjoying every second of watching him slowly blush from neck to forehead.
He backed up awkwardly -- knocking into a low table and catching it before it toppled over completely -- and bowed formally. "E-Edward Moriarty, mum."
She dismissed his formality with a wave of her hand. "None of that now. We are old friends, you and I."
"But . . . I've only just met you."
"Yes, but I haven't."
She waited for the brow to furrow and wasn't disappointed. The crease there was not as deep as it would be. He was not as broad in the shoulders and certainly not as confident, but his eyes were greener, if that were possible, and he was still surrounded by that ionized air of hope and possibilities. Edith was jealous of the life the young man before her had ahead of him. So much love and pain, so much joy and sorrow. Such was the meat of all great romances.
"This is all terribly confusing," he admitted.
"Try not to think about it," she said.
Oh, how she would miss that smile. "That's what Professor Kenyon always says."
"He sounds like a wise man."
"That's right . . . you won't have met him yet. You don't know that I've taken his place. You won't care that he's . . . no longer with us."
"Of course I care," said Edith. "It just doesn't have the emotional impact now as it will one day. Tell me about him. We were friends?"
"Yes, mum . . . er . . . professor. From what I understood, you both have been exchanging texts for decades. Professor Kenyon was the best and smartest man I've ever known, if a bit stodgy and old fashioned."
"I'll tell you a secret," said Edith. "I happen to know girls simply adore stodgy and old fashioned. You'd be wise to take a page out of your Professor's book."
"Duly noted. He mentioned you might be happy to see me," said Edward.
"Did he? Sly old git."
"That's the Professor. Speaking of books, where should I put these?" He lifted the three volumes he had brought with him across the event horizon.
"There on my desk is fine, thank you. That stack next to it is for you when you're ready to leave."
He did not meet her gaze, though she knew the brazen man he would become hid in there somewhere. "Professor MacGregor bade me ask you if you had any special requests for next time."
"Absolutely," she said, damning herself without shame. "I would very much like to have your world's edition of Gladney and Coulter's Multiverse Metaphysics and Metaphilosophy. I'm curious to see how it differs from our texts. Mr. Moriarty?"
Addressing him directly forced him to look at her. "Yes, professor?"
"I dare you to read it."
"The Gladney and Coulter?"
"The very same."
"I accept the challenge."
"Excellent. Shall we drink to seal the bargain?" She poured him a finger of her finest scotch. He saluted her and took a sip. His eyes widened and there might have been tears in the corners, but she gave him credit for not coughing it up. "You'll acquire a taste for it," she assured him.
"I certainly hope so." He cleared his throat, and she kindly didn't bring attention to it. "Edith and Edward. They were the parents of Guy Fawkes. Did you know that?"
She found his attempt at small talk sweet as honey. All joking aside, she wished she really had written down a list of things to do and say. "Oh, that reminds me! I have a present for you." From the pocket of her robes she pulled her most prized possession -- a small, tin, wind-up penguin. Slightly rusted, but little worse for the wear.
"Thank you, I think."
"You gave this to me when we first met," she told him. "I've loved penguins ever since. Be sure to return it to me then. It's very important. Can you do that?"
"I can, and I will," he said. "I promise."
"I do love you, Edward. And I always, always will."
He met her eyes this time and did not look away. "I like you too, professor."
"Please," she said. "Call me Edie."
"Very well, then," he said. "Happy Halloween . . . Edie."
Whiteface - Part II
by Jared Oliver Adams
Artwork by Anna Repp
When the Curer was done talking, Otter slumped back home to his chikhee. He felt numb. He understood now why his father had let himself starve to death those many years ago. Nothing mattered. He had failed and nothing mattered. Why not sit and wait for death to come? Why stave it off?
Lake-bloom sought to comfort him. She rubbed his back in great circles as he looked outside at the village from his chikhee, watching people go about their day as if nothing had happened. A pair of hunter-warriors were cooking a small alligator on a rack above a fire. They were talking and laughing. Three chikhees over, a group of men and women sat and plaited strips of palm branches together to make mats. A few children who had chosen blue and would be crafters were sitting with them, learning their future trade. To the side of their chikhee, a cloud of flies hovered over the house's dung basket. One of the unclean would come at night and take it for use in the fields the next day. One like Otter's son.
For days, Otter stayed in his house. He wanted to leave, to go far away, but he couldn't bring himself to expend the effort. After a week, Lake-bloom announced that she was going to visit Whiteface in his recovery. "You should come too, husband, for he is still our son and visiting him now will help heal the rift between us." She was wrong though. Otter had no son, and neither did she. The day of his naming, infant Whiteface had caught an illness, and though Otter and Lake-bloom had later thought they'd cured it, the illness turned out to be fatal.
Their son was dead.
He didn't tell her this though. Let her live her fantasy a little longer, let her hold onto their son's corpse and pretend he was still inside. But Otter could not.
He started leaving the house to get away from her increasing demands to see their son. He walked the woods and the fields alone. Occasionally he saw deer or rabbit, but he never carried his bow and had no desire to shoot them anyway.
The worst thing was the people with their questions. Eldest found him in the woods one day and asked him why Otter had let his son choose the white. Otter just stared at the man until he went away. Other people asked similar questions though, and not answering didn't keep the accusations of failure from cutting into him. He wanted to forget it all and let his emotions rot away so he wouldn't have to feel the pain, but he couldn't do it, not here so close to the village, where everything reminded him of how he had lost his son.
He called together the chiefs and told them he was going east to the Tumuac tribe. He made up some story about needing to stay strong against the Sopatke should they attack again, and the council supplied him with food for the journey and several bladders full of powdered dye to trade. Maybe the chiefs thought this was a good step toward defense, or maybe they could see that Otter needed an excuse to get away, but either way, they granted his request.
After he spoke to the chiefs, Otter informed Lake-bloom that he was leaving. "Why not wait until Whiteface can walk unaided?" she said. "Then we can both go, assured that he is well."
"I am leaving now," said Otter.
"Then you will leave without me."
And Otter did. He strapped the bladders of dye onto his back along with the dried meats he'd been given, and left. He went east as he said he was going to, but he encountered no Tumuacs. The villages he passed through were all abandoned, hastily evacuated, as if in war. This evacuation proved to be thorough as well. Besides a few hunters who were clearly Sopatke by their hair, Otter walked all the way to the eastern ocean without seeing anyone.
He stayed at the ocean for an entire moon, eating what little he cared to forage from the surrounding area and spending the rest of his time sitting on the sand as the waves came in and out, in and out.
He camped on the beach, and some nights he saw giant turtles in the moonlight that dug holes, laid eggs in them, and then went back out to sea. The eggs tasted good.
The time alone on the beach was good for him. His emotions were pulled out with the tides, leaving him cold and hard. The sages always talked about shedding emotions, shedding self-image. For them it was always in the context of bowing to the needs of the tribe, but for Otter it was purely selfish. He wanted to cut off his soul, to be just a body and a mind, no feelings.
When the moon changed, Otter went north, following the coastline. There was a Tumuac village there not far from the ocean, but after seeing the hunters in the woods, Otter was unsurprised to find that it had been taken over by Sopatke. A man with a bow challenged him as Otter walked into the village, but Otter walked right past him without speaking. He expected to feel an arrow in his back, but instead the man ran off into the woods and returned with the chief of the clan.
"Otter-in-the-grass," said the chief. "Have you made a pact with the Tumuac then so that you come to speak on their behalf?"
Otter recognized the man, but couldn't remember his name. Sopatke names were meaningless sequences of sounds, put together for the music of the language rather than any significance. Hard to remember. "I speak only for myself," said Otter.
"Good," said the chief. "Then I won't have to kill you." He smiled and then clicked his teeth together twice. The Sopatke word for "kill" was also the one for "eat." Otter realized then that when he had walked north, he had hoped to be killed. He had known he would find some Sopatke, and had hoped that they would attack him on sight. The thought was a dispassionate observation only.
Otter stayed in the Sopatke village for several days, accomplishing nothing from a diplomatic standpoint except for an agreement that this particular clan would inform the Ka-akin beforehand if they wished to take their land, instead of just attacking and trying to kill everybody. "But if you go straight west," warned the chief as they took their dinner together, "you will reach Jaegar's clan. And he is not as gentle as I."
The next day, Otter went straight west. Jaegar did not kill him, but he didn't let him enter the village either. Two men with spears pointed at Otter's chest kept him on the outskirts while Jaegar was called. When he came, Otter asked for the same offer the other chief had given and Jaegar laughed.