by Tara Sim
Dirt collected under his fingernails as he dug through a mound of soil. The dirt was wet and cold, but there was something about it that soothed him—a richness that promised life.
He saw that life in a moment: the pale orange mound of a carrot. Pulling it up by its leafy stem, he shook away loose dirt and added it to the basket. Gathering vegetables was usually a chore he disliked, but today it helped take his mind off of the anticipation brewing in his stomach.
He would be going to the coast soon. His lessons were about to begin.
A few drops of rain hit the backs of his hands. He looked up and blinked when a drop kissed the corner of his eye. Quickly, he headed back inside.
A woman with long, dark hair stirred a pot hanging from a metal hook above the hearth. She smiled at him, but it was fleeting. “What’s the fare, then?”
He showed her the basket of carrots and onions. She hummed sadly over the size of the onions, smaller than last year’s.
A muffled cough sounded upstairs. Both he and the woman glanced at the wooden ceiling.
The bells of St. Andrew’s parish chimed five. The front door opened a moment later, and a large figure shook rainwater from his dark hair.
“Curse this rain,” the man grumbled. “At this rate, the river’ll flood. How are you, boy?”
“Fine, Da.”
“Ready for your trip?”
“Yes.” He tried to contain his excitement, but the man grinned at the eager tremble in his voice.
The three sat down to a supper of stew and staling brown bread. Colors of taste flashed brightly in his mouth: sweet orange, savory yellow, black pepper, silver salt.
The woman began to ladle a bowl of stew, but he stopped her. “I’ll do it.”
He carefully climbed the stairs with the bowl steaming between his hands. The upper story was only one room, three beds partitioned by sheets that hung from the ceiling. He made for the one in the back corner.
His sister lay pale and gaunt, her brown hair fanned over the pillow. She had grown so thin. Her arms rested over the coverlet, her wrists twiglike under the cuffs of her nightgown.
He sat on the stool their mother normally occupied, and where their father perched when he told her stories. He liked to hear them, too, curled up in his own bed, listening to the low rumble of his father’s voice through the sheet.
“Abigail,” he called softly. Her eyelids twitched, bruised and puffy. When they opened, her blue eyes sought him, crinkling in the corners. “I have stew. Let’s sit you up.”
He helped prop her up against the pillows. Blowing on spoonfuls to cool them, he fed her while trying not to spill anything on her nightgown. Her eyes were half-lidded as she concentrated on chewing and swallowing.
After he washed the bowl downstairs, he returned to his own bed and crawled under the blankets. He listened to the rustle of his parents getting ready for bed, watching the flickering light of their lantern fade as it turned the sheet separating their beds from yellow to dark blue, like the sun vanishing beyond the treetops into night.
But he was too excited to sleep. In two days, he would go to the coast. Just thinking about it made his heart beat faster.
His daydreams were interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing. Before his parents could move, he was at his sister’s side. Abigail eagerly drank the water he held to her lips, gasping when she was done. He swept her hair back and kissed her warm forehead.
“I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “Tell me a story?”
He curled up on the bed with her, moving her gently so he could fit. She snuggled into his side, closing her eyes. Stroking her hair, he recited the story their father often told about the bear who went to market. She laughed at all the right moments, but toward the end she drifted off to sleep, and he was left whispering the rest of the story to her dreams, all the while thinking about the call of the ocean.
Waves beat against rocks by the shore, frothing over onto the shoals of the beach. He stood hip-deep in the freezing gray water and shivered as the tide swept in and out. The waves pulled him backward and forward, unsure if they wished to take him or not.
“Center yourself,” Instructor Beele called to him. Other boys and girls stood along the shore, observing. “Feel it in the water and expand from there.”
He breathed in deep and closed his eyes. Feel it in the water. Could he feel it? Yes, there—just a bit, a little pinch of acknowledgment. He focused on that pinch and felt his awareness grow. Time swirled around him like the eddies in the water, twisting into complex patterns he couldn’t possibly follow.
He lifted his hands. Water dripped from his upraised palms, rippling the pattern. That was his connection. That was him in time’s grasp. Heart pounding, he submerged himself in the water.
His world was soundless and dark. Cradled in the cold and wet, he concentrated on the twisting vines around him. They drew in closer, the water pressing from every side. Reaching out, he plucked a single strand and time shuddered. He released a sound that came out as a bubble of air.
Deep in the water, far away and far below, he thought he felt something else. A presence, and a warning, and a blessing.
He broke the surface and drew air into his starved lungs. The others cheered from the shore. He turned to grin at them, water streaking down his face. Sand and silt clung to his bare feet as he stumbled back to shore, where Beele wrapped him in a thick blanket.
“Well done, Bell,” the Instructor said. “And now what do you do?”
He faced the endless sea and bowed. “Thank you, Aetas, for showing a humble time servant your power. I will not misuse it.”
The Instructor patted his shoulder and moved on to the next student, a girl who came from a nearby village. Many of these students would be sent to London, but he hoped he could stay at home, where he was most needed. God or no, Aetas had many time servants to assist him. His sister only had one of him.
He watched, shivering, as the girl slowly waded into the water. She was scared, yet trying to hide it. Someone tapped his arm, and he turned to see the tall boy who had gone before him. His dark hair was still wet, and he kept his blanket tightly wrapped around his shoulders.
“Well done,” the boy said through chattering teeth.
“You, too.”
“I’m Castor. I came from Enfield.”
Bell smiled. “I know you. The cobbler’s son.”
“Yes. I know who you are, too,” Castor rushed to say. His pale cheeks grew ruddy. “I mean, my father knows your father. Says he’s a nice man.”
They watched the girl disappear under the waves. He wondered how long he had been down there; each of the students had been different. One of the girls had been down nearly a minute, and they feared she had drowned until she came bursting through the water.
“We’re sorry about your sister,” Castor mumbled.
Bell shifted on his feet. He wasn’t used to talking about Abigail with strangers. “She’s faring better.”
“I’m glad.”
The girl came up sputtering and they cheered for her. As she trudged back to the Instructor, Castor lowered his voice. “What did it feel like to you?”
He thought about the twisting vines and the power hidden beneath the waves. He pulled his blanket closer.
“It felt like life.”
The May Day festival bloomed in greens and reds and yellows, and the maypole had been staked in the very heart of the village green. Children ran about while girls in white dresses twisted flowers into crowns.
Abigail sat on a chair outside in her nicest white dress, the breeze making curls of her long, brown hair. The doctor had said she was healthy enough for the festival. Her friends had already garlanded her with flowers and ribbons, and she sat like a young fairy queen overlooking the festivities. Her blue eyes were brighter than he had ever seen them.
“May I have some cider?” she asked.
“Of course.” He kissed the top of her head, careful not to disturb any flowers, and found his mother beh
ind a table laden with food and drink. She gave him a wooden cup of cider for Abigail and even snuck him a sweetmeat.
He sat with Abigail as the local musicians strung out song after song, laughing as a goat ate the mayor’s handkerchief from his back pocket. Someone announced that the girls should assemble for the maypole dance.
Looking across the green, his breath caught. Castor leaned out from behind the church, beckoning at him.
“I’ll be right back,” he told Abigail. Careful not to be seen by his parents, he snuck around the church to where Castor waited, beaming.
“I have something for you,” the boy said. Castor pulled out a green ribbon with a single rosebud tied to it, then wrapped it around his wrist.
“What if someone asks about it?” Bell argued, but Castor waved the worry away.
“Say it was from an admirer. I’ve seen you make eyes at Mary Baker before—say it’s from her.”
“You’re too reckless.” All the same, he took Castor’s hand in his own. “I don’t have anything to give you. I’m sorry.”
Castor tilted his head to one side. He had a familiar shine in his eyes, the one that usually preceded trouble. “I know what you can give me.” Castor tapped his lips.
“I-I can’t do that here!”
“Why not?”
“We’re in the open, and the church is right there, and—”
“No one can see us.” Castor’s brown eyes studied his face, taking in his reaction. “Sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ll settle for a smile, how’s that?”
When Castor was involved, smiling was always easy, a natural instinct at the very sight of him. So Bell smiled, and it was a true thing. They stood there for a moment, listening to the music on the green, hands held fast together. The rosebud brushed against his wrist.
Slowly, he leaned in until their lips met. It was warm and soft, like the petals of the rosebud. Castor touched the side of his face, and when they broke apart, the shine in his eyes was brighter. Bell wanted to tell him that he smelled of grass and clean linen and the sea, all things he loved.
Castor led him back around the side of the church to rejoin the festival. The girls were dancing around the maypole now, tying the ribbons into a pattern almost as complex as time’s. Abigail’s friends supported her on either side as she joined them in the dance, laughing and trailing a blue ribbon behind her.
Their hands were still connected. He laced his fingers with Castor’s and thought that this pattern was just as complicated, and just as wonderful.
Colton jerked himself awake as the airship shuddered around him. He wondered if something was wrong, but a glance out the porthole showed that they were merely descending.
He had wondered if he would have visions again, eager and afraid to learn more. The image of the sea was the most peculiar. He had never seen an ocean, although he knew what they were. As frightening as the vast waters had seemed, Colton thought them beautiful.
Even more peculiar was the boy who had walked into the ocean, the one who took care of his sick sister. The Instructor had called him “Bell.” Colton didn’t know anyone by that name. Beyond that, Bell’s interactions with Castor made him uncomfortable. Bell was obviously infatuated with him, and those feelings had invaded his thoughts and almost felt like Colton’s own. It seemed unfaithful to Danny.
Focus on getting to Agra, he reminded himself. Worry about this later.
But the visions left him in a strange mood. Not for the first time, he wondered if this was what people called dreaming. Danny had often told him of his own bizarre dreams. Humans seemed obsessed with the idea of them, and talked about them whenever they could.
“And then this big bird flew down and took the key right out of my hands,” Danny had once said, “so I couldn’t open the yellow door. But then I was sort of going through the keyhole, like I’d turned to smoke or something, and I saw that the room was filled with cakes.”
Colton, trying to follow the narrative with no luck, had to interrupt: “Why was it filled with cakes? And why would the bird want the key?”
“I don’t know, Colton, that’s the point. It was just a dream. They’re not supposed to make sense.”
Were these dreams, then? But they did make sense, and besides, he had never dreamed before. Why start now?
He knew the answer would have to wait. He gripped Big Ben’s cog and focused on the power it gave him.
The airship drifted down in a steady arc. Colton sensed the air shifting around the metal hull, almost the same way he could sense time moving. It had been a strange journey in that regard; his connection to Enfield had tapered off to little more than a faint flicker in the back of his mind. But here, time ran strong, shifting, shifting, until it settled around him like a snug coat.
The airship landed with a few bumps that rattled the floor. He stood and looked out the porthole. It was already evening, the skyline a swirl of purple and blue dotted with the outlines of strange trees.
The engines and propellers powered down. Fifteen minutes passed before the door connecting the hold to the rest of the airship clicked open. Colton braced himself, ready to run or hide, but it was only David.
“How was the ride? Are you feeling all right?”
“I think so.” Colton touched his side, which gave off a pang. “Am I getting off now?”
David rubbed the back of his neck. “About that. You can’t leave just yet.”
“Why not?”
“I just got word that they’re not unloading the cargo until early tomorrow morning. I thought I could sneak you out the passenger way, but even if I did, there’s nowhere for you to go in the compound without getting caught. You’re obviously not a soldier, or a crewmember. Anyway, the trains to Agra won’t run again till morning.”
Colton’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll have to stay the night in here?”
“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t like it either. Brandon would have a fit if he knew”—Colton could not imagine Brandon having a fit of any kind—“but it’s the safest place for you.”
It was hard to argue, especially as once he stepped off this airship he’d be in a new world. He didn’t feel ready to face it in the dark of night.
“I’ll stay here,” Colton agreed. “Will you come for me in the morning?”
“I will. Do you need anything for the night? Any … I dunno … blankets?”
Colton smiled a bit, reminded of Danny’s mother. “I don’t need anything. I’ll be fine until morning.”
He watched David, along with the crewmembers and soldiers, head into the large compound beyond. Suddenly, he missed Danny’s bed. Making do with what he had, he curled up between two boxes and closed his eyes, trying to recreate Danny’s image in his mind. The clothes he wore still smelled of him, but that would fade with time. Everything faded, eventually.
It was hard to concentrate on Danny when he still saw Castor behind his eyelids. Annoyed, Colton opened his eyes and glared at the box in front of him. What sort of story had influenced these dreams, anyway? Why were they all about Enfield?
It’s like I’m reliving someone’s life, he thought as night fell outside. Someone from Enfield. Someone like Danny, who can sense time.
“Who are you?” he murmured, unaware he’d spoken the thought out loud.
He was so tired. It didn’t take much convincing to slip back into unconsciousness, curious to see if more dreams would appear. After all, he had an entire night.
And he wanted to know more about the sea.
Instructor Beele was a thin, middle-aged man with ear and nose hair amusingly disproportionate to the hair on his scalp. As he paced before his students, lecturing on theories of time measurements, that wispy hair blew frantically in the coastal wind.
“Units of time have, of course, been guided by the sun for centuries,” he said with a vague gesture upward. The sun was half-hidden behind brooding clouds, the sea restless, its soft roar underlying Beele’s words. “Other methods included heartbeats and the blinking
of the eyes. On a grander scale, years have been divided into recordable measurements: the saecula, the aion, the lustrum, the olympiad …”
Students sat on blankets along the shore. They did not take notes, as most of them couldn’t write. This was a lecture they had to listen to and remember.
Which was why Bell glared at Castor whenever he flung little rocks at Bell’s leg, or made faces when Beele wasn’t looking, or leaned over to murmur in his ear.
“I wonder what unit of time is named after one of Beele’s lessons,” Castor whispered.
Bell couldn’t resist. “A beelenium,” he whispered back. They snickered as a couple other students gave them sidelong looks.
The Instructor stopped mid-pace. “Is there something you two find amusing?”
Castor cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
“Stand up, Bell.”
Flushed and ready to kill Castor as soon as they were alone, Bell stood and brushed the sand from his trousers.
Beele eyed him skeptically. “Since you’ve grown bored with time units, let’s alter the topic slightly. Name the five Gaian gods.”
Bell swallowed. “There’s, er, Chronos.”
“Who is?”
“Who’s the creator of time. And there’s Aetas”—he paused to bow toward the sea—“who was given the gift of time when Chronos could no longer control it.”
“Keep going,” Beele said.
“Oceana, the giver of water. Aetas takes refuge with her. It’s said that they were born together. Then there’s Caelum, the overseer of the sky and the heavens, who moves the sun and moon and stars. And Terra, the protector of earth, who grows our crops and raises mountains.” He glanced down to see Castor clapping quietly.
“Very good. Now tell me, since you already seem to know everything I have to say regarding time units, how Aetas came to be the Timekeeper?”
Bell chewed on his lips. Sheepishly, he shook his head.