Time Travel Omnibus, page 614
“There is one warning I must give you. Do not look directly upon his face.”
Arcana felt herself growing lighter as he speaks. The lips of the statue are hardening, the eyes glazing. Arcana stretched her arms and legs, feeling as if she is awakening from a too long, too deep sleep. Yet she knows she has not been dreaming because the Time Lady held the recovered necklace around her plump white throat. Immediately Arcana feels that she wants to be away from this place. There was an alien aspect to the Time Lord’s face that has not been apparent to her until now. Centuries will pass like the slow grinding of stone on stone before that carven smile, those dead eyes, would change.
She began to run, down an indigo corridor, mad with deepwater reflections, up to a window and through it into the light of an eternally ascendant sun. The weight and dust-smell of centuries fall away as she scales the wall, the stone abrading her hands and knees.
“Wyle!” She half-fell from the wall and ran forward to assail him.
“I didn’t know if you’d come out of there or not,” Wyle says, when he is able to make sense of her jabbering. “But waiting isn’t hard here. One minute is much the same as the next. I was dreaming, or maybe I wasn’t even asleep. I walked through a place of shadows and a long figure without a face—”
“Forget your dreams. The Time Lord has given us a quest. If we fulfill it, he will grant the Duke’s request. We’ll be able to leave this awful place. Come, I’ll tell you, as we walk, what the Lords of Time are like and how they live.”
A duskiness in the air and shadows had begun to envelop them. They had sensed rather than seen the trees about them, ancient and twisted trees, whose upper branches were obscured in distance and blurred by the intense blueness of the air. The utter silence of the place had intimidated them, but Arcana had reached out to take Wyle’s hand. Leaves like pale silver outlines of ghosts were whispering down from above, slowmotion falling, drifting, twisting, hypnotic in their motion. Arcana had felt that she was being buried alive in the light crispness of leaves and their warm organic smells and she wished she could die with them, grow brown and withered and gone.
Only a terrible inner toughness that life on the street had given her kept her on her feet. Wyle tries to lie down, but she kicks him sharply. They wade knee deep in the curling crisp leaves, drunk on the smell of leaf-mold, half in love with the perpetual dying season of the year.
“There,” says Wyle.
A dimness is all they can see, a gathering mass of solid shadow. “You said it would be easy, but I don’t like this place. I’ve been here before, or to someplace like it.” Wyle nervously caresses the smooth staghorn handle of his dagger.
“It’s only a house—looks kind of deserted, though. I didn’t think you’d be afraid of haunts or spirits.” She walks forward boldly, too young to feel what Wyle feels about the place. The stones hang together precariously, furred with green-black moss. Wings rustle in the branches above, but Arcana sees no birds. The door stands open.
At first Wyle will not enter; his knuckles are white as he grips his weapon. Arcana has to laugh at him, careless, cruel child’s laughter that rings (somehow) familiar in her ears. And he follows into the cave-damp interior of the deserted house. The room is barren; a rough bed tied with thongs and heaped with dried evergreen boughs, a huge gnarled tree-stump hollowed out into a chair, polished dark and smooth by the body of someone who had often sat there, staring into a fire on the raw-brick hearth, seeing Xesis knew what visions. Arcana tries to shake off the feeling of uneasiness that is creeping up the back of her neck. Footsteps crackle in the leaves outside, paralyzing Wyle with fear. Arcana guides him to a corner where a heavy crossbeam casts down a bar of darkness. Someone enters, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the door. As he passes Arcana averts her eyes, remembering the Time Lord’s warning, but she cannot help looking once he was gone by. He is gangling, raw-boned, but does not move in a clumsy way. His ragged shirt exposes long wristbones, strangely delicate to end in large, ungainly hands which are darkly stained. His coarse black hair curls down over his collar. Arcana finds herself wishing that he will turn around.
He picks up a log and drops it into the fireplace. The dry wood seems to blaze up almost as he touches it. He sits down on the chair and extends his hands, letting the firelight turn them redly translucent. He seems a lonely figure, trying to bring warmth to this lost place. Arcana impulsively wishes to stand beside him, dispelling the long loneliness with a word and spend the eternal evening in talk or companionable silence. As the figure relaxes, seems to fall into a light sleep, his hand drops, almost to the floor, firelight sparking off the frost-silver of a large ring.
Arcana is immediately all hard business as her eyes catch that spark. “I’ll sneak up close and if he’s asleep, I’ll slip the ring from his finger.”
Wyle gripped`her convulsively. “No, you mustn’t touch him. The Time Lord played us false. I think I know this man. Only he isn’t properly a man.”
“Quiet, he’ll waken.” Wyle’s eyes slip nervously sideways, to see if what she says is happening.
“And even he sleeps,” he says, letting his hands slip weakly from Arcana’s shoulders.
Her taut muscles carry her across the room, her bare feet making only the softest of sounds. But the sleeper breathes deeply, regularly, even when her fingers delicately grip the ring. It is ice, sending a shudder through her. Where the set should be is a dark opening like a tiny well that is so deep she has to keep herself from looking into it for too long. She thinks there are certain things stirring at the bottom of the well. It isn’t difficult for her to slide the ring off the lax finger. She clasps the treasure against her palm, motioning Wyle toward the door. His foot makes a scraping sound and the creature before the fire is thrusting himself upward. Though Arcana does not look back, in her peripheral sight he seems to tower upward, growing to an impossible height. She lets her fear propel her to necessary speed as she bolts through the door. Looking back over her shoulder, she sees Wyle, running slowly like a figure trapped in a dream, and unbelievably, turning his head, turning to look back at the face of what pursues him; it is just as she remembers it.
Wyle’s legs let his body fall of its own weight and he settled to the ground, all knowledge all pain all fear all joy sliding from his features glazing over into a terrible peace. And so final. So she could see nothing but the blurred prisms of her own tears and something was tearing its way out of her, but she could still run, so, of course she did.
And, of course, she got away, with the ring a burning cold circle in her hand and with a gnawing curiosity that made her wish that she, too, had looked back. It would have been one way of solving the mystery.
The Time Lord’s statue stands in the indigo passageway, looking out a window as if it were waiting for her return. She will fling the silver ring at his feet. “The quest is done, you stupid, smug, stone bastard.”
Seablue light danced across her eyes and she felt herself grow ponderous again. The statue moved, stooped, picks up the ring, seemingly unoffended, yet perhaps her ghost-words had never reached his ears. He appears strangely pleased and reaches out to draw her nearer, but she shrugged off his touch. “I want nothing of you for myself, but my master wishes eternal youth and happiness, little may it profit the ill-smelling old crocodile.”
The Time Lord looks at her in surprise (as though a flower from his lovely bouquet had calmly spit in his eye).
A servant poured wine from the cobwebbed bottle into the crystal goblet and put it carefully into the frail, brown spotted hand. “It’s cold in here,” whined the old lady. The stags and hounds and maidens and unicorns moved with constant life along the walls. “The wind is rising again; I can hear it.”
“Yes, Ma’am, but it’s only the wind after all,” answered the servant, a surreptitious smile appearing on his youthful face.
“Yes.” Her querulous voice subsided and she looked around the room. It had changed very little. The small jewel-polished chairs and tables stand superciliously in their places, mirrored in the shining floor.
Another servant appeared at the door. “My Lady, the little gentlemen is ready for bed.” A child rushed into the room, a bloom of red curls, a bird-egg speckling of freckles. “Good night, my angel,” said the old lady. A line of spittle drooled down the boy’s chin from his open mouth; his eyes shone with a heavenly, a mindless happiness. He made squealing sounds and grabbed at invisible butterflies as the maidservant led him from the room. “Good night, my little duke. Such a good boy, such a happy boy.” She nearly strangled on her own high, witch-laughter.
The night wind prowled endlessly, sending unseen filaments to pluck at the tapestries and make the fire flutter on the hearth. The old lady’s head nodded forward, like a heavy pod on a slender stem. Dry leaves zig-zagged leisurely to the ground.
“I’ve lost my way,” shouted Arcana, her voice deadened in this quiet place.
“Follow me,” said a voice and Alek appeared beside her. She followed him among dark trees, but his strides were long and she had to run to keep up.
“You’re going in circles,” she accused him at last, grabbing hold of his sleeve. He started laughing and grasping firmly the skin of his forehead, he began to peel it off easily, exposing the face of Wyle. It was peaceful, as she had last remembered it. Without speaking he gently led her along a path bordered with stone willows and starflower shrubs. She picked a flower and felt it cool and rigid against her cheek. Wyle smiled and seated himself in one of the garden chairs. She knew what was coming but still she felt her stomach contract when he removed the membraneous mask and became the Time Lord.
“You are Arcana?” he asked. “You are much changed. I only dozed off for a moment . . .”
“Years have passed and with them, my life, a life crowded with things happening, people coming and going. But you have not changed at all.” She placed the starflower in his open hand.
He rose, holding the flower before him, where it began to flame and sizzle and throw sparks, illuminating a great darkness ahead. She walked close beside his lanky, scarecrow figure, content, for in a moment he would peel back the final mask and she would see his face.
ROAD MAP
F.M. Busby
He woke, hungry. The waking was sudden, not like his usual gradual drift to consciousness; he was fully alert. He opened his eyes and saw blurred masses of bright color—he couldn’t bring them into sharp focus. He tried to bring his hands up to rub the sleep away. He couldn’t do it; he felt the texture of cloth under his hands and vaguely saw them move, but something was wrong with his control, his coordination.
For a moment he was close to panic. Then he thought, Whatever it is, it doesn’t hurt—and I can feel and move; there’s no paralysis or numbness. Searching for an explanation, he wondered if he’d had some sort of surgery, and was suffering aftereffects from the anesthetic.
He couldn’t recall planning or needing any operation, but temporary amnesia might be another side-effect. The thought encouraged him—rather, the realization that his mind was working well enough to think of it. Deliberately, he began to test his memory of the basic facts about himself: name, age, marital status, state of health—the lot.
Ralph Ascione, age fifty-eight, two years a widower—he paused to weather one of his still-frequent bursts of missing Elizabeth, and caught it short of seeing her death again.
Health good, so long as he took care of his heart. Thought of that organ also gave him pause, but he decided his symptoms were nothing like those of his one serious attack. The mental recitation continued; the facts were all there: height, weight, home address, date of his son’s imminent wedding, and all the numbers that specified the life of Ralph Ascione. His memories were sharply defined and readily accessible. The only thing that eluded him was any explanation of his condition.
What more could he learn of it? He listened, but heard only vague sounds that told him nothing. His mutinous hands brushed nothing but cloth. His tongue touched bare gums; where were his dentures? The air smelled of hospital; that part of his guess was probably right.
He squinted and tried to focus his eyes. If he were seeing at all correctly, his bed was a cage, at least five or six feet high—but open at the top. He considered the possibility of insanity but rejected it; the discrepancies that disturbed him were physical. And he didn’t feel sick . . .
Below his middle was warm wetness; whatever his ailment, it included incontinence. He felt depression; maybe his state was worse than he had thought.
A new sound came; in the blurred distances, something moved. Vaguely seen, a huge face loomed over him and made soft, deep clucking noises. Then he understood.
Reincarnation, by God! They’d always said you don’t remember; well, somebody was wrong. Either he was the exception—some kind of fluke—or else all babies remembered at first and lost the recall later. He didn’t want to lose his. He ran a few facts through his mind again; no, they weren’t fading . . .
He was surprised at the way he absorbed the shock so easily. Before he could flinch at the loss of his lifelong identity, something inside him grasped eagerly at the prospect—a whole new lifetime!
But his thoughts rioted in confusion, so that he hardly noticed the way his mouth sucked instinctively at the bottle or the warmth and gentleness with which his bottom was washed, dried and rewrapped. The cuddling and petting calmed him; first his body relaxed, then his taut awareness. He could think again.
The question of age puzzled him. Remembering his son’s earliest days, he was almost certain he was at least a week past the newborn state. Perhaps, he theorized, consciousness could not emerge until the effects of birth trauma subsided. It didn’t matter, but still he wondered. He’d like to know his birthday, he thought, and the year.
The year! He’d always been curious about the future, wanting to live to see as much of it as he could. Well, sooner or later he’d learn what part of it was now his lot.
The nurse talked to him and made crooning sounds, but at first he couldn’t force his ears and brain to shape the sounds into intelligible words. Then slowly, like becoming accustomed to a thick dialect or accent, he began to understand. And then he received his second shock.
“Sweet baby,” said the nurse. “Oh, she’s a sweet, sweet baby!”
His mind froze, his self-image fighting to keep its place as the nurse returned him to the crib and left the room. He recognized what was happening within him, he dove deep and found the concept of himself as a person first and everything else second, and the struggle eased. Well, came the thought, that’s fair. See how the other half lives.
He could not think of himself as a she; he sought but could not find any feeling of shentss. His bodily sensations were too diffuse to tell him anything; from the internal feelings at his crotch he could have been male, female, hermaphrodite or completely sexless. His hands were no help; even if he could have controlled them, he was too well swaddled.
Intellectually there was no need to confirm the nurse’s words; surely she knew and said the truth. And certainly it hardly mattered at the moment, and wouldn’t, in a sense, for some years to come. But inside him was something that clung stubbornly to the concept of maleness and refused, without proof, to give it up. Inside him, against his Will, raged conflict.
He’d have to wait and see, he decided. Either his inner attitudes would shift naturally, guided by glandular balance, or he’d have to work at adjusting to the new, the totally unexpected situation. He was pleased to find that he was not consciously resisting the inevitable; he had no desire to begin his new life with a built-in basis for neurosis.
Sensation brought his self-congratulation to a halt. He had wet himself again, and more than that. Without conscious intent, he began to cry, loudly. The noise he made was out of proportion to the mild protest he felt; he wanted to laugh at the incongruity. But what the hell, he thought; it’s the only game in town. And eventually the nurse came and changed him again. He concentrated on the way it felt to be patted dry, and was fairly certain that the warm washcloth encountered no protrusions. The nurse had not lied to him.
What would it be like, then? He thought of the women he knew well, of what he understood them to be like. He wondered if he understood them at all, or they him.
Elizabeth understood him, of course, sometimes better than he knew himself, and from the start—their agreement to marry came quickly and with few words. Elizabeth Wilson was so young as to need parental consent for marriage, but she was free of the gaucheries he expected from such youth. She seemed so much a part of him that when, rarely, she became truly angry in a disagreement, he acceded to her wishes almost automatically, out of sheer surprise. One time: “No! We will not take the morning flight. I can’t be ready until afternoon.” When the morning flight crashed without them, half-joking he accused her of precognition. “If I could see the future, Ralph, I wouldn’t have led clubs into dummy last night, and cost us the rubber.”
A part of him, and he a part of her. No wonder he missed her so much.
He thought of his mother, widowed when he was twelve—of how her warm love became overly protective for a time. “. . . wear your galoshes; it might snow . . . shouldn’t you wear a sweater under that light jacket? . . . I’m not trying to choose your friends, but there’s a lot of talk about that girl . . . Of course you can live on campus if you wish, but I’d feel much better if you stayed here and drove to classes . . Her touch on the reins was light but ever-present. Then one day, after much thought over a long period, he told her it was time he began making his own mistakes—the storm was less than he had feared, and afterward they could be friends. But as a woman, he realized, he knew very little of her.
His sister Cheryl? Happy child, then spiteful brat and runaway hellion. With Cheryl, the breakaway drew blood, and the later reunion was equally painful. Then, her life stabilized, she was a good friend to him and Elizabeth.
