by MK Alexander
“Can’t say that’s ever happened to me. But I think I’m getting it.”
Fynn put his hands behind his back and resumed his pacing in front of the blackboard. “We rarely consider how much we are moving at present; that we are perched atop this giant churning orb, thundering along, careening through the cosmos at a fantastic speed. Exactly now, sitting on that desk, you are traveling at about one thousand miles an hour.”
“I am?”
“Yes, that is the approximate speed that the Earth spins on its axis. Just as if you were riding in an automobile.”
“Okay, with you so far.”
Fynn erased the board again and picked up a stick of chalk. He drew the arc of a circle in the top corner and wrote the word: sun. “And further consider, that the Earth is orbiting around the sun at a tremendous speed, many thousands of miles per hour... much faster than your Saab.” Fynn drew a rough circle, presumably the Earth. He added some arrows of different sizes. Small curved ones showed the rotation of our planet, a larger one showed its orbital path. “And so we are all moving many hundreds of miles in just a single moment.”
I started to laugh a little. I had never really considered this.
“The sun, and hence us, are also spinning around the center of the Milky Way galaxy at breakneck speeds.” He drew a much wider arrow near the sun. “So you see we are already moving quite quickly. Moreover, our galaxy is in motion as well… in various ways, but ultimately we are being pulled in the direction of the constellation Hydra, at many millions of miles per hour.”
I was beginning to get this. “But all this movement, it must be in a mix of different directions: spinning, orbiting, revolving, speeding through space.”
“Yes, you’ve put your finger on the complicated bit. All these vectors, all these different speeds and relative positions. They all must be considered.”
“What does all this have to do with free fall?”
“Everything. In the very instant of free fall, all momentum, inertia, time and space— they cease to exist. This has large implications on how I travel.”
“I’m totally lost.”
“It all hinges on what direction I am facing.” Fynn drew a stick figure on the Earth. “Here... this is me, the jumper. But first, where is the Earth relative to the sun? Recall your astronomy?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Not at all. If it is night, then I am on this side of the Earth.” He erased the figure and drew another. “If it is daytime, I am here, and so on…” He kept drawing little men at different positions on his chalk Earth. “So… when I jump, the time of day so to speak, or what direction I am facing, has a strong bearing on where I might end up.”
“So you can only jump at dusk or at dawn?”
“This is an oversimplification, in practice it is nothing like that.”
“But you’re this cup of coffee...”
“I am that.”
“Have you smashed against the window and spilled, or the equivalent?”
“I would say yes, quite a number of times.”
“Okay, if I understand at all, then you’re not really in control here… I mean the way you travel.”
“With any great precision, yes. Remember please, for centuries I was led to believe the Earth was the center of the universe… Only Copernicus changed this view… It was much, much later, in the nineteen twenties when Edwin Hubble saw that the galaxies were racing away from each other… And only recently, in the late nineteen eighties did scientists observe that we were speeding towards the Great Attractor.”
“The Great Attractor?”
“An unknown gravitational field that draws in all nearby galaxies, and at tremendous speeds. This has an effect on libra lapsus, and understanding it more thoroughly has allowed me to travel more efficiently.”
“And before these discoveries?”
“I will admit, my ability to travel with any precision was rather limited… I would say, I traveled completely at random.”
“This is really complicated.”
“I agree. It’s taken me centuries to work this all out. And I fear, I’ve only scratched the surface. I could go on for hours on the intricacies of free fall…. I will not even mention how the Earth’s obliquity has caused me no end of discomfort. Suffice to say, traveling to the future is not so exact. I can rarely go to a precise time and place. More often than not I am miles away from where I start.”
“Miles away?”
“Remember, I must travel through time and space together. So, the longer the free fall, the further I travel, both in time and space. In that moment of free fall, all momentum, inertia, if you will, is nullified.”
“This is hard to wrap my head around.”
“Let’s just say, I’ve ridden many a bus to make my way home, or far worse.”
“What’s worse than riding the bus?”
Fynn said nothing but gave me a pained smile.
“What about when you just jump back into an old consciousness, you know, like stepping into a pair of cozy slippers.”
“Yes, a soft jump... this is quite different and much easier, more predictable. While the journey is initiated by libra lapsus, the destination is more or less fixed, not at all dependent on geography.”
“Why is that?”
“Who can say? But back-jumps seem to be nothing more than a byproduct.”
“A byproduct? That’s a funny word to use.”
“A symptom then? A result? What I mean is, slipping back to a previous self happens only because I was able to travel there in the first place. I cannot simultaneously occupy the same space and time. There cannot be two me’s existing together.”
“So when you free fall, you’re not exactly sure where you might end up.”
“This is true to a large extent, though it is now a matter of sheer will and concentration. It’s taken years and years to master. Still, I am not the perfect traveler.”
“And your compass thing?”
“It aids in navigation. When it’s with me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When I travel backwards to a previous self, I can carry nothing with me but my consciousness. So this object gets lost from time to time…”
“...Wow,” I finally said, having trouble taking it all in. “So… this is just magic in the end.”
“Magic?”
“It’s not science. It all comes down to magic.”
“I am neither a magician, nor a scientist, mind you… I merely dabble. So, if you prefer to call it magic, I have no better word for it. Though there are a few simple laws that are always obeyed. They seem to be inviolate.”
“Like?”
“As I’ve said, libra lapsus itself is quite specifically constrained by direction and duration. Time does indeed flow forward, there is causality. Changes in the past always affect the present and the future, but unpredictably so… and imperceptibly sometimes.” He paused and looked at me for a while. “These things are more akin to science than magic, I think.” Fynn switched off the remaining light in the classroom. “But enough for now.” He laughed. “I’ve given you a lot to think about. Too much, I fear.”
I followed him to the door. “Where is everyone by the way?”
“How do you mean?”
“The school… it’s empty and dark.”
“Ah. Spring break begins, I heard someone mention.”
Fynn and I walked out together. I thought silently. This is incredible. Too incredible. The poor man was insane, plain and simple. He hardly seemed like a policeman anymore. Detective Chief Inspector Tractus Fynn? More like some weird mystic guru guy.
***
I’m pretty sure it rained that whole weekend. There was a gray day Easter Parade, and for once I’m glad that cub reporter Joey would cover it. Easter bonnets, kids with baskets and giant rabbits walking around at the annual egg hunt… It was the perfect photo op and a good way to fill the paper up in a hurry. I spent my time holed up in my apar
tment, trying to think about the impossible stuff Fynn had described. In some strange way, it did make sense, but it shouldn’t have. It made my brain hurt mostly, and sent me to Wiki more than once or twice. Scrambled eggs and scrambled brains; true or not, I was overwhelmed by it all.
My table was filled with scraps of paper. I can’t believe I’m doing this… I’m actually writing down all the things Fynn told me about traveling, trying to make sense of it. I guess it came down to three choices: he was crazy, we were both crazy, or I was... alone. It didn’t occur to me that both of us could be perfectly sane. It was the timeline thing that really bothered me though. And it seemed especially relevant. I might not be able to travel in time, but if I had the awareness that things had changed… well, what does that mean? In the end, the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around was the future…Why was it a phantom place?
“All futures are imagined,” Fynn had said.
Why is it always reset? I wondered, and felt trapped by my own thoughts, and the weather as well. The rain was relentless. I considered my best outdoor destination; I needed to find some green again, but where? My private pine grove? The rhododendron forest? Or anyplace where ivy grew… that was third for good reason. There was something cold and sterile about an ivy patch, even in the middle of summer. It was nice to look at and all, but never seemed to be a great place to hang out.
It would still be some time before the ferns came alive and spread up the gully of the woodlands among the white beech trees. Soon though, all the trees would be fully leaved, well almost. At least now they were all frosted with a tender green, and some of the ornamental trees were ablaze with color. The only flora that seemed to be missing in Sand City were palms. Even Valmont Dubois had failed in this regard. No escaping frost.
The rest of the time, I sat at the kitchen table and watched the rain drip down my sliding doors. Zachary my cat also stared outside, having temporarily lost the desire to bound into the wilds. Soon enough though, the weather would get nice, all the trees would come alive again to soften the bleakness, hide the stark buildings and houses with their leaves. I’d might lose my view of the bay but it would be worth it.
Well, at least the birds were back, I had heard them over the last couple of weeks. I don’t know if they just came out of hibernation, or if they winged it back from the south, but I loved all the noise. They were either like little flying bears, or damn yankees who flew back and forth, I could never remember which. They didn’t seem to especially like the rain either, and had fell silent for most of the weekend.
I got a text from Joey: found real pirate ships! He even added a grinning emoticon. I took a look at the pictures he sent and recognized them immediately. They were the sunken Liberty Ships out near the sea wall. Anachronistic maybe, but perfect for our Treasure Hunt. A long time ago, maybe in the early fifties, someone purposely scuttled three World War Two freighters right along the shore of Bayview Beach.. No one is sure why, not even historical guy Kevin could say. I could still remember them from when I was a kid… and to me, they were from pirate days to be sure… Their old softened timbers would rise from the waves at low tide, jutting out, breaking the surface. You could walk along what used to be a deck, now just buried bits of old wood with rusty iron fittings. Probably not the safest place for a little kid, but over-the-top cool.
chapter 17
step lightly
The inspector was quite adamant about finishing our Map Quest. I was reluctant. This week was the Blackwater Quarry. “I must insist, it’s on the map,” Fynn said when I picked him up at his hotel as usual. It wasn’t much of a drive from the Blue Dunes.
A quarry? Really? Whose idea was it to dig a great big hole in the middle of a tiny peninsula surrounded by water on three sides? Most of the whole damn place is already below sea level. As much as I tried, I never did find out who thought this up. Even the Historical Society was baffled, though Sand City had been a leading supplier of gravel in years gone by. The decrepit machinery, previously covered in vines, the huge stone crushers, giant sifters and rusty loading chutes had been dismantled and removed some years ago at considerable expense. We approached from the shallow end where the bike path ran alongside. It was a popular pit stop. Lots of folks liked to have a snack and sit down under the shade trees, but the leaves and the shade had yet to arrive.
“How deep is it?” Fynn asked.
“Bottomless.”
“Surely not?”
“Just one of the local myths. No one really knows. Couldn’t be that deep. Some people say there is still a giant steam shovel at the bottom. It was abandoned in the nineteen thirties when they reached the water table and the whole thing flooded. Couldn’t pump it out anymore.”
“It’s actually quite beautiful in a stark sort of way,” Fynn commented.
“It’s a blemish on our fair city.”
“You really think so?”
“No, I guess not…”
Fynn was right, it was quite beautiful for a hole in the ground. The old quarry looked just like a meteor had fallen from the sky and hit the side of the bluff. Or maybe a volcano had exploded in the distant past. Neither was the case, it was entirely man made, a huge crater about the size of four football fields and ringed by three sharp sides, granite cliffs really. They arched up the bluff on either side from the shallow end, presumably the place where the trucks once rolled in and out. Now it was a beach of sorts. There were a couple of picnic tables, an historic sign and some big trees. Not that anyone really went swimming here. The water was brackish. On a good day it was black and green in color, some kind of algae grew profusely. On a bad day, say after a storm had churned things up, the water was a rusty red. You could dive in from the bluffs though, from any number of stone ledges that had been dug out long ago. Kids still climb the cliffs and dive in, a summer ritual. A plunge from the top, the highest point took some nerve— it was probably an eighty foot drop.
“In the summer this place is buzzing with dragonflies… it’s quite the sight, very cool...”
“Dragonflies? Do you mean vuurvliegje?”
“Do I mean what?” I had never heard such a thing and laughed.
“What’s the word…? Fire bugs?”
“Oh, fireflies… hmm, can’t remember ever being up here at night.”
Fynn and I were walking back to my car when my cell started ringing. I checked the number and it was Durbin so I handed it straight to the inspector.
“Yes?” he answered and listened intently.
I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation.
“I see… no, no… please just wait a few more minutes. I will be there directly.” Fynn handed back the phone and gave me a small look of concern.
“Well?”
“Another death.”
“Another girl?”
“No, an old man, an animal doctor— how do you say? A veterinarian.”
“Samuels?”
“Yes. How do you know this name?”
“He’s the only vet in Sand City.”
“It seems he’s taken a bad fall down a flight of stairs.”
“An accident?”
“We shall see… please, we should hurry.”
“What did Durbin say?”
“He believes an accident. Routine is the word he uses, but he does the courtesy of calling me... just to be sure, I think.”
“It’s called butt-covering.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, you are the chief,” I pointed out. “He probably just wants to do it by the book.”
From the quarry to the animal hospital was less than a five minute drive, not even enough time to answer all the inspector’s questions. Doctor Samuels was a Sand City institution, a hero really. He’d been taking care of pets for the last fifty years at least. He’d also saved any number of marine creatures that had stranded themselves on the beach, from seals to dolphins, and even a pilot whale or two. Over the years his small cottage industry had become an animal empire. He built
a hospital and a shelter out back, a private kennel too. There was a pet store as well, carrying everything any cat or dog could ever need, from giant bags of kibble to squeaky toys. Samuels had paid customers and free tenants. He also contracted with the Village as the city’s animal control service. That meant every season Doctor Samuels would have to hire a new, weird animal control guy. Not the kind of occupation you’d last long at: Tracking down feral dogs and scooping up roadkill… Certainly not a job for anyone. And just like any other business in Sand City, it was quiet in the off season. Come Labor Day though, there were no vacancies.
“What sort of man was he?” Fynn asked.
“Old, very old and frail, kindly by most accounts.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Oh, sure I have. I did a big story on him a couple of years ago. He’s legend.”
“And what is your opinion of him?”
“Seems nice enough… took care of Zachary once… He’s definitely very old, probably should have retired years ago.”
“Might someone bear him a grudge?”
“Seems doubtful. He’s a local hero.”
There was an ambulance at the scene. I saw two paramedics lounging by their truck. Its siren was silent, but its lights flashed expectantly and cut into the afternoon gloom. There was no crime scene tape, just Officer Adams at the door. He nodded to the inspector and let him pass, then his hand came up to my chest. “Not you, Jardel.” He stopped me on the first step. I turned to Fynn with a helpless expression.
“A moment, officer,” Fynn intervened. “Patrick is with me. His help is invaluable. You must let him through.”
“Captain Durbin says no one goes inside.”
“Captain Durbin?” I asked, pretty much under my breath.