No Present Like Time

by Steph Swainston

  Walking down the corridor I caught sight of a flicker of movement on the opposite wall and went back to investigate. It was my reflection, pickled in a tall mirror speckled with tarnish. An expression of horror crossed its face-even in the half-light I don’t look as good as I did this time last year. Still the same age of course, but my eyes were ringed with deep shadow; my cut-off T-shirt was the gray texture of clothes washed hundreds of times.

  I called at the stables and watched my courier race away with San’s letter. Enormous plane trees grew in the wrecked paddock outside. I walked past the one that I had sheltered underneath, two hundred years ago. Suddenly I saw a vivid image of my tattered self back then, leaning against the tree trunk. If I had known that any Challenger was welcome to walk into the Castle at any time, I would not have spent three days sitting under this very tree, wondering how to present myself. On our way from Hacilith, highwaymen had murdered my girlfriend and stolen the money I’d gained by blackmailing the city’s governor. I owned nothing but my crossbow and a switchblade.

  On the third day under the plane tree I felt a presence watching me-a man, all his colors subdued and outline unfocused as if seen through gauze. I felt a chill and didn’t dare move. I stared at him and he looked back, so strange, full of confidence and concerns larger and more frightening than I could comprehend. An adult world, seen by a young man terrified for an instant by the inkling that he will join it and have heavy responsibilities every day.

  I didn’t know in eighteen-eighteen that I was looking through thinned layers of time, at myself. But now I realized that I was the ghost that my younger self saw. I wanted to tell him that everything would work out fine, that he would win his Challenge and two hundred years later he would still be twenty-three. I couldn’t speak to him, but I smiled-and I remember receiving that warm compassion, because when I sat with my back against the plane tree’s bark, I wondered at the manifestation but felt heartened and at ease.

  Two centuries ago, what happened next was that at nightfall some immortals returned from the Front. I rushed to hold the reins of a horse carrying a well-built man with stripy gray and white hair, and the Castle’s sunburst on a big round shield. His horse’s withers were smeared with yellow blood.

  I don’t know why I expected Eszai to look different. A sparkle of the Circle about him was simply my excited imagination. He said, “You’re no groom.”

  “I want to be Eszai.”

  He must have wondered at what in the Empire I could possibly excel. “Then come in, waif.” He kicked the horse’s ribs and it cantered forward. Its hooves boomed over the wooden bridge and echoed between the weighty towers of the massive barbican.

  I picked up some more steak sandwiches; I expend so much energy flying that I have to eat vast amounts. I walked from the kitchens through the ground-floor corridor of the Mare’s Run, the inner west wing, past Hayl’s apartments. I passed the Southwest Tower, where Tawny’s well-lit room was located, full of indiscriminately chosen prizes: Insect legs, bear pelts and jousters’ helmets. Then I climbed the three hundred and thirty steps of my tower, leaning on the wall all the way up, past the myrtle-green storeroom and the bathroom on its first floor that smelled as musty as hessian. I could lie on the bed for a while and fantasize about Tern-although I am more in a mood for a Rhydanne. Or I could, and I know I will, be distracted by the obvious alternative.

  Wind-thrown rain began to scour the shutters. Tern had not been in for months; my room was dark and bundles of letters overflowed the shelves, piled everywhere. My valuable pendulum clock had stopped; I wound and set it to the right time and date. Masquerade masks hung around the mirror, beside a hookah as tall as I am, its fuzzy orange tube coiled around its brass pipe like a python. I spun the oval mirror around on its stand, face to the wall.

  Faded posters taped to the round ceiling advertised music festivals, marathons, and Challenges when I wiped the floor with the mortals who wanted to contest me. I’m usually Challenged in winter when conditions for flying are at their worst, and I set the same test that won me my immortality-a race from the Emperor’s Throne Room to the throne room of Rachiswater and back.

  There was a vase of dried flowers, the only plants that withstand Tern’s immortal forgetfulness. There were a few neglected old projects: my guitar, tennis rackets and a crossbow, all equally broken. There was my bike on which I lavish much attention, wrapped in its red rope that I use to lower it out of the window. Hanging on the wall above it was a series of obsessively concentrated little pen-and-ink sketches by Frost of jousting tournaments. The mantelpiece was cluttered with some wax seals in their skippet boxes; a souvenir from Hacilith-a spider’s web preserved between two sheets of glass; and a lump of solidified Insect paper with a coin pressed into it. By the window stood “Butterfly” my Insect trophy wearing a sailor costume, and my suit of armor stuck fast to the wall with decades of rust. An array of kettles, toast forks and dirty plates filled the hearth. On the dusty table beside my still’s retorts and condenser was a note covered in Tern’s dying-spider handwriting. I screwed it up and threw it in the cold fireplace. Looks as if the temptation of Tornado was more than the pretty lady could stand, I thought, fishing in my satchel for my syringe.

  Once I start to feel the need I can go downhill very rapidly, and the room seemed suddenly very warm. I have to shoot some, I found myself thinking. No, I don’t need it. Oh, yes, I bloody do; I don’t want to be sick. Maybe when Tern sees how badly her adultery affects me she’ll come back. The trouble is that we spend so long apart that when we do meet we are still self-sufficient, which is a barrier to becoming really close.

  I sat down at my desk, reached behind me to pull down one wing, unfolded it in front and held it between my knees. I preened fingers through feathers like a harp, hearing them rasp, and felt the thin skin ridged over my quills. Here are veins I haven’t used and they looked tempting. But if I made a slip and something went wrong, or if I damaged it and was paralyzed, that would be the end of me. I have only shot up in a wing once before when I was desperate. This was sacred. Sighing but pleased at some show of willpower at least, I untied the pendant thong from around my neck, looped it over my right arm and licked the ends up between my teeth. I flexed my fingers, impatiently tried to raise a vein. Don’t poison yourself, Jant. Meditate your way to Epsilon. Yeah, right. Why did Tarragon think I wanted to go to Epsilon? The Shift was an unwanted side effect when I only needed the drug to make me forget my pain. Why walk through worlds if you’re immigrant in each?

  I sat with the needle poised, feeling a last blast of guilty defiance, then pushed it in neatly. In the space of a heartbeat it hit like a coach-and-four. Feeling like a god, if a rather incapable one, I located the chaise longue under my maps and lay down. This was like flying into a wall.

  My thoughts played out in the air above me, but they were rudely curtailed by the door unlatching. A graceful and chic figure entered, and seemed to flow over to me. Tern looked at me closely. Her body was a fair; there were dances there. Her spine a snake, voice like icing on cakes-

  “Oh, typical,” she said crossly. She touched up her lipstick in a mirror above my head.

  “Where have you been?” I asked suspiciously.

  Tern glanced down and must have realized from my expression that subterfuge was pointless. “At Tawny’s apartment…I had a good time.”

  “What, all of it?”

  “Tornado single-handedly held Gio off from attacking our home. He said if Gio came nearer I should run to the Throne Room. I have been encouraging him…Is it okay for you to enjoy yourself but not me? I’ve heard that Tris is a perfect land. You sailed off and left me here.” Tern slipped out of her dress and searched around for her silk dressing gown, clad only in a white bra and underskirt. I was too stoned to be angry. I found it hard to care about anything, not even if the strongest man in the world came in and bent her over in front of me. I gave her my orphan look: please take me home and put me in your bed.

  “Wipe th
at off,” she said. “Are you going to lie there all night with your hand dangling? We had a pact, Jant. You’re not being sophisticated, just sedated.”

  Yes, we had a pact, which we began after the span of a mortal lifetime had lapsed. We promised that it is acceptable to have affairs because we will still love each other the most, and we will always return to each other. Actually, sleeping around should be refreshing because we have to spend the rest of eternity together without becoming bored.

  I propped myself up on the velvet cushions. “Tern, why Tornado? Amre, he’s stupid; demre, he can’t converse worth shit; shanre, he’s bald; larore, he’s ugly; keem he’s poor! Is that the kind of man you really like, so you don’t love me anymore? Was your pride among the possessions you lost in the fire? Keemam, is he better in bed than me or, keemdem, are you so worried that I might be beaten in a Challenge that you’re prepared to shag the whole Circle?”

  Tern said, “Why did you steal my money? Can I have it back, please, or have you mainlined it all?”

  I ignored this transparent attempt to change the subject. I kept pleading: “Remember when I proposed, how I brought you the filigree spider? We could go down to the Hall and dance without music, the way we did back in ’ninety-five. Come on! Wear your brooch-it can be our seventh honeymoon.”

  “Ten minutes and you’ll simply collapse.”

  “Come to bed then.”

  “That’s not the point! Shira, you’re never here yourself!”

  “I’m the Messenger! The point of my existence is to bugger off and bring back news! It’s my job!”

  Tern drew the curtain across our room. I lay and watched the details of its velvet folds; they looked like letters of the alphabet.

  She wiped her eyes and said quietly, “All your holidays are spent in Scree. Fighting Insects nearly burned you out-so off you go to the mountains. Do you have any women there? Even when you’re here, you’re unconscious! I knew your cycle would come around again. You can’t stay off cat-you can’t stand to be sober for more than five years. You’re not thinking about us; you are thinking about that fucking drug.”

  Tern knew how to hurt me. She had observed it well over the last century and her infidelity had pushed me into addiction before. If she was not adulterous I would not be a junkie. “I took cat because I’m scared of the ships,” I said. “Everybody knows that but Ata still forced me to sail. Besides, I would rather not use cat at all than bother you with it. It’s under control.”

  “That’s not always apparent.”

  Well, it wasn’t always true.

  Tern kept going. “Oh, for god’s sake! If I upset you, you suddenly start to notice-but you don’t think how your actions affect anyone else! I should never have married a Rhydanne.”

  “Where did that come from?” I blinked.

  “I don’t mean your appearance! Some things you just can’t grasp, no matter how hard you try. It doesn’t occur to you to think of anybody else, like you’re still living alone in a hovel in the mountains. When you’re away on errands do you ever think of me?”

  “Yes. Yes, all the time! That whole Rhydanne thing is just bullshit. Don’t lay it on me as well now.”

  “The pact-”

  “Sod the pact! It’s all right in theory but neither of us can actually stand it!” In a lull between the waves of chemical pleasure I sprang to my feet and stalked around the room. I ran my hands down the embossed spines of the books on the shelves. I ended up leaning on the stone mantelpiece looking at outdated invitations to dances. Our marriage rings were smoke rings and they soon dispersed. “I’m still Eszai,” I said.

  “Shira…” said she, and then fell quiet as she remembered what my name meant.

  I kicked a neat hole in the bottom of the wardrobe door, then sat down cross-legged on the bearskin rug. “Yes! See how important fidelity is to Rhydanne. If you’re going to make all these unfair comparisons! I’m mostly Awian anyway!”

  Tern said nothing; she had not seen me this angry for years. I stared at the ceiling, the only part of the room that didn’t spin. I understood affairs; Tern wanted the same intensity of feeling now that she had when she was young. We might have young bodies, but we have had so much experience that we can’t be young again. Tern should face it: she’s one hundred and twenty-one. She would be dead by now if it wasn’t for me, the ungrateful bitch.

  “Do you drop your underwear on Tornado’s floor as well?”

  “At least I don’t vomit on the floor!”

  “Where do you think I’ve been? Tris and back! This is the first rest I’ve had in months; I’m serving the whole Fourlands, not just Wrought! You can’t see farther than your own nose! Having been through all that-ocean-don’t I deserve some affection from my wife? Well, I can speak a patois that Tornado will understand. I will challenge him to a duel.”

  Tern laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’ll throw down the gauntlet and fight him. When I have a clear year to recover from being hospitalized. Of course he’ll rip my wings off but it’s worth it to get through to him.”

  “You mad bastard,” Tern said, with something of her original admiration.

  “Yes, I am. And remember, none of the mortals were. Not Sutler Laysan-”

  “I didn’t-”

  “Or Aster-”

  “That-”

  “Or Sacret Aver-”

  “No!”

  It was the fact that her latest affair was with an Eszai, not a mortal, that angered me so much. I would outlive the mortals and my talent reassured me; I knew that Tern would always come back. Now for the first time she had a choice. “Are you going to divorce me and marry the Strongman?”

  “Jant, don’t ask such questions…I’m going now. I’ll come back when you’ve straightened out. When you can return the money you stole.”

  “Money has nothing to do with this!”

  “It does. Oh, it does indeed.” Her pure, sparkling voice instantly froze. She picked up the most expensive beaker from the still, turned it over and put it down thoughtfully. “I can’t keep up repayments on Wrought’s debts. I can’t afford to rebuild the foundries. With no workers in the colliery or armories, my manor is sunk.”

  But I knew all that; I had always tried to help Tern. I was suddenly uncertain how to answer because I had been listening more to her voice than her words. “What are you saying?”

  “Wrought will have to be leased. I considered selling but I don’t want to lose my title, so I have managed to find a tenant. A coal-quarrying, canal-building nouveau-riche Hacilith businessman. I have no idea what Lightning will think of that. But who cares? Micawater itself is not in a position to help us financially anymore.”

  “But that’s terrible! How will we live?”

  “Soberly. The rent will pay my creditors-thankfully credit rates for immortals are good-but there will be little left over, and I will have to live here. The man from Hacilith and his family will help me reconstruct the manor house. Until my fortune improves, he’ll reside there and also take the revenue from the armories. He’s keen to work with Eszai.”

  “I bet he is. I’m sorry. I do love you, Tern.”

  Tern came and placed manicured hands around my cheeks. “You look awful,” she observed, and laughed red-wine fumes into my face. She lightly kissed my cheek and I smelled her powdered skin; the scent went straight to my groin. I swept one wing across my body to hide an erection that swelled so large I thought it was trying to climb into my belly button. I might get some sex tonight, after all. “What would you say to a quick fuck?”

  “Don’t push your luck, quick fuck.” And she left, bound for Tawny’s rooms.

  I yelled after her, “Don’t ever come back! You’re not that important to me anyway!” I picked my needle off the floor and threw it at the dressing table. “Cat makes me feel better than you ever did!”

  I felt as if I had a hole in the middle of my chest, and everything I am and everything I had been was draining through it until there was
nothing left. I was hollowed out, utterly emptied. No smile or kindly deed I will ever perform will be rooted in myself; it will be carried out from duty rather than love. The world’s conflicts carry on, oblivious, elsewhere and unreal; from now on there was no way to connect with them. I was animated only by that sick sense of duty, because all the love had been washed away.

  I retrieved my needle and staggered up the steps to the four-poster bed with a feeling of desolation and a strange desire to get down and walk on all fours like a dog.

  I drew the curtains; the dark brocade bed became a ship spinning on a whirlpool’s rim. Its sails would not fill. Cold fish push up under my feet, fall flapping from beneath the bolsters of this bed and everywhere I’ll ever sleep. In the tiny vial eels seethe and bite. I wanted to sink out of the world. I tapped up a vein running over my biceps and slid the needle in deep with a practiced hand. Then I huddled against the ivy-covered headboard, sighed, and bubbles rose around me. Scolopendium pulsed through me, so good, to my toes and fingertips. A solid blow hit my heart and I squeezed a fistful of shirt tightly. I can ride the rush. But there’s nothing to hold on to on this ride, because the ride’s yourself. I gasped ice water into my lungs and then was nothing. It kicked me heavily out of my body and into the Shift.

  Into Epsilon, the place you find when you take a wrong turning and decide to keep going. There is no easy way in.

  I walked down the street. It’s a one-way street; from the other end it looks like a mirror. Litter blew past, in the opposite direction to the breeze. Some of the Constant Shoppers were already arranging their wares, buying from each other with a muted morning energy. Tine made their stalls of smooth, living bone. They shaped a grainy bone gel with their hands and it set in sculptural sweeps. They exhibited framed emotigraphs, pictures faint with age or new and piquant, that recorded the subject’s emotion and emanated it for the viewer to experience. A wedding picture radiated every feeling from rapture to secret jealousy. A picture of an autumn forest evoked nibbling nostalgia: lighting up a stolen cigarette, smell of leaf litter and first-night stand sweat.