by A M Russell
‘As long as we do actually have lunch.’ Davey muttered.
‘Take five everyone.’ said Marcia, ‘then suit up. Lorraine, you keep the bottle. Janey, you share on Jared’s if you need to.’
‘Okay,’ Janey glanced at me then back at Marcia, ‘and what to say about Jared?’
‘Nothing,’ Marcia warned, ‘Everyone is too strung out for any more surprizes.’
‘Tell us.’ said Joe loudly.
Everyone went quiet.
‘We just need to get home.’ Marcia was calm, unruffled.
‘I’ll say it then,’ said Hanson, ‘in two words: Time. Travel.’
‘Bloody Hell!’ Davey looked up at me, and everyone else just stared.
I felt strangely elated. Odd; if not to say unusual. I held out both hands, palms open, in a gesture of supplication.
‘What do you want from me?’ I asked the assembled company.
Davey was staring and was very still. Something had settled in his mind at last it seemed. Lorraine was looking at me with a new expression, she looked puzzled and curious; two expressions I rarely saw her use. Joe looked away, then back at me; there was a sense of pain in his eyes. He wouldn’t want to be me, to share this fear; he knew what they had always said about me; it seemed it was pity, or a realisation that he saw the thing that made sense of this difficult patient; and his prognosis was uncertain as to whether the patient would make it.
Time travel…. What can one say about that? It is a common misconception that travellers actually travel through time a lot, which it rather a contradiction in terms. We have control of causality. “The Art of Causality” Mr Charles had called it. I was beginning to wish I studied with Karis now. But I needed to say something. I needed to answer this. I was afraid of what might happen. But I trusted that Janey had already thought of that. To control the thing that normally commands you….it is frightening in itself.
I felt Oliver grip my shoulder, ‘I will stop him getting you if I can. Rimmington with have to deal with me first.’
‘And me.’ Davey gripped my right hand in a painful way. Marcia took the left and lifted it to her lips, ‘Count on me.’ She said.
‘The guy is clearly a bastard.’ said Joe, ‘so it’s percentage wise, support for you at 100 per cent.’
‘Likewise.’ That was Hanson.
‘I’m in.’ said Lorraine.
‘Always in your corner Brother.’ Janey said, and then turned back to her pack. Everyone shook themselves as if they had just woken up and we started to tighten straps and check the links of the breathing sets.
We were crawling out the hole after rolling back the heavy flat stone. That was how we had kept the storm out some hours earlier. We crawled out slowing into the little covered dry ditch and hid the entrance to the place.
When we were all out, Oliver and Davey set about covering the place with vegetation to camouflage it. I was sure that the finding of this had not been as random as we like to think. What were the chances of getting stuck in a place like this? Any port in a storm. After five minutes the thought of anything that we had exposed in our selves was wiped straight from our minds in a flurry of speculation.
Marcia sharply said ‘Shut up!’ and crept forward slowly.
First there seemed very little evidence of the storm this evening, apart from a few broken branches and some churned up ground near to the place where we had had come in. there was evidence of there being recent traffic of some heavy treaded vehicle. The road went away from the direction we wanted to go in, so we slid away towards the sound of something light and tingly.
It was daylight.
It was impossible. Unless of course you are trapped in a day you’d rather not have. There was a thin haze of clouds above us, and there was the promise of good whether as the sun burned those wisps away.
‘Time. Oliver!’ Marcia ordered. Oliver got out a compass and marked the position of the sun on a little note book worked it out.
‘We are, as they say, on a correct heading. And the time is now eight in the morning.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘The only thing I’m not certain of; which day this is. All that mess, all the debris. It isn’t possible to clean it up, as well as being utterly pointless. There are earlier ways to fool someone.’ Oliver seemed satisfied that something made sense to him.
‘It’s still today.’ I said, but only Janey heard me. As at that moment she was at my right elbow.
‘Have a care little brother. We are still in the anti-shift field.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘I can still run rings round him… I hope.’ An idea was forming. The anti-shift field would stop me or Janey, but it also would stop him.
‘I would not suggest it.’ said Oliver as if he was reading my mind.
‘Oh?’ but we said nothing further. As we rounded the hilly banking with the cave to the right and behind us, I saw a strange sight.
There was a low wall, such as you might see in a herb garden in the grounds of a big house. Then low shrubs, and a little brick path…. Then some more criss-crossing paths like an ornamental maze. But beyond that my attention was caught by two things: firstly, the moving colours of people in brightly coloured clothes and the sound of distant chatter such as you get at a well-mannered party, overlaid with a nearer sound of wind chimes. They were hung on a rose covered archway. That tingly sound from a few moments ago, softly insistent, dreamlike and in some ways restful. I stepped forward. The rest of the group were investigating to the right, following the outer low wall. I passed through the archway and approached the gap by a hedge of herbs. There were people there, and the distant sound of music on the breeze. I stepped forward, they were in little knots and groups of people and I moved through them easily. They were taken up with their conversations but moved to let me pass. I began to walk up some terracing, steps that went up to each level. There was seating and little arbours and borders of summer flowers. The sun was peeking through.
A girl in a green silk shift that billowed gently in the breeze smiled and moved aside. Just above a man with a tray stood, unmistakably a waiter.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘May I be of assistance?’ he offered the tray, so I took a drink and stared at the glass for a moment. I could feel it in my hand, but I wasn’t sure if it was real.
‘Sir?’ the man passed the tray to another who was attired like himself, and bent slightly forward; ‘I wish to assist you. How may I do so?’
‘I don’t know…. I mean… where is this place?’
‘The fourth terrace. Naturally it is one of many such. Each Master of the craft has a private terrace like this one.’
‘And who is this… Master?’
‘Ah! I see that Sir is new. I will show you the dining room. Then perhaps someone might have a word, and you should then be able to meet your host.’ He turned and started up the set of steps. He turned to me again, ‘If you would follow me Sir.’
I was led to a wide upper terrace upon which a string group played and thence in through wide open French windows into a softly luxurious room. The walls were pale and the furnishing were such as you might find in a large house where ac are3ful collection of furniture had been selected by one whose taste included many styles and eras, but was able to select the individual pieces to create an eclectic opulence that pleased the senses for its timeless pleasure. On large table near the doors were selections of food and brightly coloured piles of something I took at that moment to be bean bags….
‘Sir, your hosts assistant will collect you in a moment.’
I nodded and stayed near the door. I was still holding the glass unsure of what to do. Something told me it would be a bad idea to drink this. I saw another waiter pouring what was clearly champagne into a glass exactly like, so I raised it to my lips.
‘Hello…. Mr Arden!’
I turned and leaving the glass on the table took a step forward.
I saw the same man I had seen at the marble hall. But he was dre
ssed differently. There was something quite relieved in his face. Almost as if he had been waiting for me, and was glad I had arrived. But he didn’t offer his hand.
‘Mr Charles?’
‘The very same. We have met.’
I wasn’t sure what to make of the way he inflected the statement. It seemed ambivalent, neither a question nor a fact he was certain of. His eyes were dilated, and yet he seemed quite calm. He had been in a darker room I thought, and not outside in the last twenty minutes. I saw the irises pulse and flicker for a moment as he looked me in the eyes. He held my gaze, and seemed then uncertain, as if he had been sent to check on who this person was who was here to see the master, and wasn’t at all sure he had got the right individual.
‘I must say you are looking the same.’ He was guessing and I knew I better be careful how I answered.
‘Still Jared.’ I said.
‘Yes. I understand.’ He thought for a moment, as if this was a clue to something, or a sign he needed to interpret.
‘Perhaps we could see the master now?’ I was beginning to wonder what the delay was.
‘You are not worried that it could be Mr Rimmington?’
‘No.’ I realised I was being obtuse the moment I answered him. There was something about this whole thing that was too calm, and relaxed for that fox. The people. They seemed happy; not nervy, and yet they had been afraid in the marble hall.
‘They don’t know who you are.’ Mr Charles flicked his wrist in the direction of the garden terrace just outside the door, ‘it is alright. There shouldn’t be any trouble from Alexander until after the celebration.’
‘What time is it?’ I could see a clock on the wall but somehow felt that it might be wrong.
‘It’s three o’clock Jared. You know that.’
‘Three?’
‘Yes. The ceremony has been delayed until the remaining guests can get here.’
I tried not to react. It was clear that he was mixing me up with someone else. There must be some confusion about it. Who had he met first? But he regarded me with a strangely neutral expression then and turned and led me through to other rooms. There were a few people milling about, or sitting on chairs. But he took me to another door, which was heavy, wooden and ornamental.
I entered a room that was softly lit by the interplay of firelight, and sunlight from wide windows. They looked out onto a still quiet part of the grounds of this house… for such it must be. And the furniture in here was all dark wood, polished and aged. The faint scent of beeswax and the undertone of something else woody and aromatic told me that this was the Master’s room.
Mr Charles stood quietly and waited. It was very quiet in this room. There was the faint tick of a clock on the mantelpiece. This had reassuring friendly number on its face, rather than roman numerals. We stood, and waited. After about a minute I became aware that there was another person there. Not because I could see then. But I sensed their breath, or the wave that travelled outwards from them. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling sensing the air in the room the current of the air; the breath of Mr Charles speeding up; and the faint pop and hiss of the fire in the grate.
‘Do you wish….?’ Mr Charles spoke with a respectful soft and submissive tone. The sort you would use in the presence of someone who you admired and were please to serve or to have fellowship with.
‘Thank you….’ said a voice, then; ‘bring him where I can see him.’
Mr Charles motioned with his hand that I should follow him round the room. We circled to a place where we faced the windows, and near there was a high-backed chair. The person sat in it was very still.
‘Would you like me to go?’ Mr Charles seemed anxious then.
‘Yes,’ said the voice again, ‘You mingle with the people. Tell them it won’t be long now.’
Mr Charles sighed with relief at this news and quickly left the room shutting the door very softly behind him.
There was a pause; long enough for that stillness to settle in again.
‘You are Jared.’ He said.
‘Yes?’ I tried to move my head to see him.
‘A moment.’ He stood and stepped a little forward and to the left nearer the fireplace.
He was tall, and wore a long fitted jacket that was buttoned up to the neck. It appeared to be a very dark blue – almost an indigo colour, nearly black. He had a crown of black hair that curled around his collar and kinked and curled down a little over his face. It was hard to judge, but he seemed lean and muscular. He had long fingered hands; hands of a musician or an artist. He held them both palms open. He stared then at me. There was a pale complexion and the recent trace of tiredness under the eyes, which were clear and unblinking, and a slightly curving mouth, relaxing into a half smile. I couldn’t work out if the stubble was an attempt at a proper beard or several days of not shaving.
‘You are Jared.’ He said again, the tone was more certain as if it meant something more than the simple words.
I searched this face. I stepped forward. His eyes were level with my own. We were exactly the same height I decided… I am tall, about six, one; on a good day….
There was a moment then before something in my mind flipped; I saw a man who intrigued me, something passionate in his expression, some intensity in his eyes, which glistened and reflected the light in the room as if he could see all ways at once.
‘Who are you?’ I said. And then I saw….
You really don’t know how I was feeling. And if you ever experience this, then you are lying if you said it was entirely without discomfort. I experienced in the next few minutes something like a panic attack. At least my body reacted. But my mind was screaming with some delirious sense of mad pleasure. It was the weirdest, and with that the most discomforting sensation, as well as being a glorious spike of an epiphany that went beyond just the reaction itself.
I was certainly finding it difficult to breathe, and had to step back. I found, and sat down in the nearest chair. He came and knelt down in front of me but not too close. He passed me a glass of water.
‘Please…. It will pass in a few minutes. Just try to breathe in slowly.’
‘Okay.’ I rasped. I took the water and sipped. There was nothing in it. But it seemed infused with the stranger’s touch. I sat back in the chair, ‘what is happening?’
‘It is better than most.’ He said.
‘Better?’ I said feeling light headed.
‘Yes… please breathe Jared. You will be alright in a minute.’
‘Not really…’ I gritted my teeth and leaned forward, and rested my head in my hands. He went back and sat in his chair again.
I looked up a few moments later. The world felt as if it was tumbling over and over. I laughed and then felt like crying, ‘You are…. You are….’
‘Yes.’ He said.
‘You are Jared too.’
Ten minutes later I had calmed down. I drank some more water. And then, as if on cue a waiter entered with a tea tray.
Cups and saucers.
‘I know you don’t like biscuits.’ He said. I shook my head to clear it again. It was like being plunged into cold water every time he spoke. I heard my own voice, talking to me. I laughed again then reflecting that the usual situation was of me talking to myself. I remembered painting, and having long conversations with myself on a variety of subjects. I guess I had it coming.
‘We don’t have much time,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something but I think it would create a paradox of quite epic proportions.’
‘Do I really sound like that?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He smiled and his eyes seemed to crinkle up in amusement. I caught myself thinking that he was the kind of guy I wouldn’t want as competition if there were women around…. then realised with a start of surprise that I was catching a glimpse of something that no one ever sees. The perceptions of the other, as you really are from another point of view. I wasn’t sure if I could do this for long. Was it a temptation to fatuous pride, or ego? Thi
s was a good looking guy. The sort that other men envied; all those girls at parties wanted them because they were unselfconsciously having a drink at the bar, totally unaware of the effect they are having.
But he is me! But is he? Oh shit! I leaned forward again.
‘I understand this,’ he said, ‘but for now it must be borne, there is no time to adjust properly… it is uncomfortable. And the otherness will not be remembered, if you don’t want it to be. But I must tell you that the person you see in front of you is an extrusion of your future self. I am, for want of a better way of putting it… the person you imagine me to be. But I must be clear I am NOT a copy. I am an extension of you. That is why the strange discomfort. Meeting oneself is really not a good idea.
‘So I need to know my future?’
‘No…. you need to create for yourself an alternate version of your own past… perfect in every detail; complete and undetectable form the real thing. So real, that in fact it becomes real. I am really you. But I was not the result of a decision that you have been changing in the distant past. But that is what we want everyone else to think.’
‘Ah!’ I’m cottoning on now, ‘does the “everyone else” include Mr Charles?’
‘Mr Charles…. knows certain things. Although he was never told; it would be safe to assume he does know. But he can never tell Rimmington. That is for reasons of his own. And then again he might not know; but simply suspect. Either way he will not give it away.’
‘It was you! You asked him to offer me the…. job?’
‘Yes. And he had a difficult time with the alternate. He had to leave that bit alone. You were bound to ask… It was inevitable.’
‘Was he hurt?’
‘No. but it does make you sick.’
‘Ill?’
‘Yes… time sickness debilitates some people for a quite a while. He did well.’
‘But the minders?’
‘That old trick? It really is all in the mind. Concentrate on something that has a really strong taste or scent to it, for some reason that seems to make the psychic pass fail.’