TELLING TIME
He said it wearily, as if the repetitions had lost any meaning. "I am a time traveler."
"With a busted leg," Jim pointed out. "Seems to me the future'd try not send a klutz to the past. Doncha think?"
The man turned heavy blue eyes Jim's way, their slight slant a jarring match to his ash-blond hair. "Hey! Are you some sort of Swedish Jap or something? Cuz that's some freaky combo you got going there." The injured man grunted, probably in pain. His leg was heavily bandaged in some slats and duct tape. It's what Jim had at hand. "You're not a gook, right? Like a chink or something? But I gotta admit them chinky girls sure know how to treat a man!"
He shifted his weight on the couch, swearing softly.
"So you're from the future?" He didn't react. "Okay. Sure. You from two, three hundred years in the future?" A shrug. "More?" He shrugged. "Have the Cubs won a World Series yet or did they move to Osaka or Yokomama or something?" Jim chuckled. Yokomama. Good one.
The guy just stared at Jim. Pissed Jim off. "You got some nerve sayin' you're a time traveler. That's bullshit. How'd you end up slamming into my fence? You drunk or high?"
It was like the man was reading something. "I wasn't supposed to be here. The error placed me in the wrong place at the wrong speed. That's how I hit your structure."
Jim shook his head. "Doncha mean you're in the wrong time if you're a time traveler? I don't get this 'wrong place, wrong speed' shit."
"You wouldn't," he said just loud enough. Then louder: "It's called 'space-time' for a reason. Several, in fact."
"Uh-huh. You keep believin' that." Jim stood up and he looked at the man, warily. "So you're like my great-great-grandson and you come back to shoot me and commit suicide for your world?" Jim was grinning and likin' hisself a whole lot right there.
His eyes. There was something in his eyes that faded Jim's grin. He didn't seem crazy anymore. "You are...definitely...not the target...of my mission." His words were soft, but landed like paving stones on the carpet.
Jim raised his hands and dropped 'em quick when he saw they were shaking. "Hey hey hey! Don't get your Jappy jones up! You got a mission, I got a mission, we all got somethin' to do. Capisce?" Jim tried to get him to look away, but the man kept him in his sights. Jim felt a drop of sweat on the back of his neck.
A sharp clap-flash made Jim dive for cover behind the kitchen counter. When Jim heard voices jabbertalking he peeked up and saw two guys, dressed a lot like the gimp on his couch, standing right there in his living room. One was holding a small green-screened device that shone a light on the gimp's leg. In seconds, the gimp was able to slice through the tape with his finger (his finger?) and stand up. Now Jim know for a fact that leg was broken cuz he saw the bones stickin' out in two places, so that made him stand up. All three turned to me in a the same manner. Freaked Jim out. The light flashed at Jim and all three looked at the screen.
"More of you Swedish Japs?" Jim tried to bluff it out, but those three were like ice.
"We'll be leaving now," said one of the newcomers, the one with the darker eyes. "Thank you for tending to...our friend." All three nodded...in the same way.
Jim swallowed. Then the gimp Jim splinted smiled and wrote something on a slip of gray paper. The three exchanged a look with the screen and the former gimp handed the note to Jim, with a shark's coldest smile. When Jim looked down, the clap-flash happened and Jim was alone.
The note said only: Wednesday, 11:17 A.M.
No big deal, thought Jim. Aloud, he wondered "Something...personal--is gonna go down, right?" Then it hit him: What? And what Wednesday?
TIME TO RETIRE
The nattily-frocked man climbed the long spiraling staircase, the large silver tray balancing an equally-shiny teapot and a cumbersome heavy mug. Upon the narrow landing, the man stopped to look at the massive grandfather clock, of dark walnut and brass trim, the large ivory face with hands pointing silently and motionless to 9:34. The man had carefully set the clock last night, as he did every night, the last task before he retired.
Breathing a deep sigh, the man tread down the hallway and up a short staircase to the upper chamber's massive oak door, its grain almost glowing from the gaslight on the wall. Placing the tray carefully on the settee, the man knocked precisely, two taps, then two more.
"Come in!" came the muffled reply. Composing his features, the man opened the door, picked up the tray and walked into the room.
Upon the massive canopied bed lay Reginald Farnsworth IV, scion of a titled line that acquired it on the battlefield at Hawthorn. Some said the title passed hands after the battle, when the wounded were supposed to be sought for aid and comfort, not gain. The man thought about that ever so often.
Farnsworth was a wispy old man with cotton-white flecks of hair upon a mottled skull. His eyes were rimmed with red, a sharper crimson than his nose. His hands, crablike and stained, flittered on the double coverlet that smothered his withered legs. His voice was the pale echo of a rasp on tin. "Finally. Is that my tea?"
The man placed the tray on the bedside table. "Yes, sir, as it is every night at this time."
A grunt. "You didn't forget did you? It is peppermint tea, right?"
Nary a flicker of face or eye. "Yes, sir. As every night."
A wet gurgle became a cough. "Two lumps then." The man nodded, an unspoken Same as every night lingering in the air.
Farnsworth sipped the tea with drooling lips, his wan cheeks flushing with heat. He barely replaced the mug on the tray before falling back limply on the pillows he'd piled days ago and hadn't let another hand touch since. "Morrison?"
"Yes, sir.'"
"How long have you been with my family?" An old question. Yes, indeed.
"Since the old Earl was a lad, sir. Your grandfather, Farnsworth the Second."
The red-rimmed eyes opened craftily. "Many years, eh, Morrison?"
"Yes, sir." Morrison let his thoughts drift for a moment, a moment of weakness he would later chide himself for.
"...old man's will, you are due for retiring soon. Isn't that right, Morrison?"
Slightly startled, Morrison glanced at the tray and then the mug. "Sir. That is correct."
Farnsworth IV sat up shakily. "Two years from now, if I remember correctly."
Morrison shook his head slowly. "My apologies, sir, more than that."
"Three?" grinned the old skull.
"Less than that, sir. Somewhat less than that."
The old man slumped. He heaved as if sobbing. "Take it away! Take that bloody awful tea away!"
Morrison nodded, grabbed the tray and began walking out of the room. "What's to become of me when you retire?" cried Farnsworth IV, his ragged voice cracking."
One will take my place, sir." Morrison kept walking.
"But they don't know me like you do, Morrison!"
Closing the door, Morrison spoke softly. "They will, sir. I daresay they will."
At the landing, Morrison placed the tray on the table he'd brought up near the clock. Carefully, he moved the hands to 9:33. It was always the last thing he did, before he retired.
THE SILENCE OF PAIN
The Lapente Indians lack a word for “disappointment.” Instead, they make reference to “the silence of pain.” Here’s the story they tell--or told--from long ago.
Sky of Thunder was a tribal chief along the high plains leading to the lakes of the east. His tribe was small, having broken off from the larger tribe led by Tree Wind and her mate, known behind his back as Frightened Coyote. Sky of Thunder brought his tribe to a riverbank and set up camp. For eleven summers, his tribe hunted, fished and traded to the east, where the Friendly Peoples lived, but never to the west, where Tree Wind held sway over a growing number of tribes.
Sky of Thunder’s first-born was a strong boy, who was given the name Cloud Wolf. By his tenth summer, Cloud Wolf was the tribe’s Little Chief, the boy even elders nodded their head to when he passed. His mother, Sky of Thunder’s first mate, died in the
long Winter of the Gray Snow and from that point on, Cloud Wolf and Sky of Thunder were united in grief and actions.
The following summer, Tree Wind led her tribes in a surprise attack on Sky of Thunder’s camp, forcing the smaller tribe to fight its way to a hasty escape. Riding and running north, then east, Sky of Thunder led his tribe to safety, his chest swelling with pride as Cloud Wolf, small in stature and age, fought alongside bloodied warriors as an equal. Once the escape was complete, Sky of Thunder and the elders bestowed manhood on Cloud Wolf, three summers early, but in the words of the Elder Woman, Rain Flower, a day past Cloud Wolf’s sunrise.
Six summers flowed past, with Sky of Thunder’s tribe growing quickly as Tree Wind’s grasp gave way to Frightened Coyote’s cruelty and entire families crossed the high plains to join a more peaceful tribe. Cloud Wolf led hunting parties and even several raiding parties far to the cold north, against the Flat Faces and their vicious dogs. In every act, Cloud Wolf proved himself brave and fierce, but also wise as he refused to separate families amongst the captured, insisting on trading them together when he haggled with the Friendly Peoples.
By now, Cloud Wolf was tall, the tallest warrior in the tribe, with eyes and hair of obsidian black and skin unmarked by enemy steel. Wherever he went in the camp, he was followed by several pairs of soft eyes and wishful hearts. But though his voice was soft and his laughter quick, not one of the wishful hearts was able to hold him for long.
In the Spring of Blue Flowers, Cloud Wolf went off on a solo trek to hunt and scout the south lands. He was gone for nearly two moons, and returned with several dressed deer, new steel knives…and a necklace of jade. The camp was in disarray, nearly destroyed, and Cloud Wolf rushed to his father to discover what had happened.
Sky of Thunder lay on heavy blankets, his face a gray mask of pain as a shaman treated his wounds in leg and chest. Several warriors clustered around their Chief looked at Cloud Wolf with hard eyes, their words barely contained. When Sky of Thunder saw his son, he struggled to rise, fighting against the shaman’s efforts to hold him down. He stared at his son, opened his mouth and then, closed it, his eyes fixed on the jade necklace Cloud Wolf was wearing. His face became a rictus of shock. With a sharp cry, he fell back on the blanket and groaned heavily.
With a sharp slash of his hand, Cloud Wolf ordered the warriors away. They left, with dark scowls. Cloud Wolf knelt at his father’s side, his eyes a blend of confusion and…defiance.
“You knew...of this?” gasped Sky of Thunder. Cloud Wolf nodded. “Eleven dead…your sister…” Sky of Thunder’s voice failed. Then with a tremendous effort, he rolled his head to stare at his son. “You with the daughter…of Tree Wind…”
“We were seen together. If I had warned you, they would have killed her.”
Sky of Thunder tried to speak, but the silence of pain took his words away.
THE FINAL BATTLE
The carnage was immense. The best of men from two kingdoms lay strewn on a battlefield first soaked with blood and gore and now drenched with the thunderous cold rain of a raging storm. Lighting bolts, furious shrieks of light, slashed across the sky in rapid sequence, their gut-wrenching booms as if groans of anger at the illuminated death-ground.
Elegan the Wrathful, of Anthor, rose from his knees, his armor dented so badly he could barely rise, the sluice of near-freezing water slapping his breath away. Swaying from exhaustion, wounds and cold, he looked out across friends and foes, searching for a sign of life. His sword barely gleamed in the flashes of angry lighting, covered in blood so thickly that not even the pounding water could wipe it clean. He could barely see, but in one streak of the heaven's hammer, he saw...someone.
Jal Ka-tul of Lebensac stumbled over a corpse, and then another. His armor was ruined, bashed and now so wet that it could never be fixed. Blood seeped from his wounds, aided by the cold water that kept him from falling inert upon a fellow soldier...or an enemy. His morning star, once a thistle of death, was now an anchor that snagged on armor or roots, its spikes flattened or bent. Jal Ka-tul staggered again, cursing the battle, the storm and--suddenly--he saw the enemy across the field, holding a sword aloft.
Elegan couldn't tell who the enemy was, only that he was big. The lightning flashes blinded him more than they helped, but he could tell where the enemy was and that they were moving towards each other. Nothing else moved, and the stench of death was no a distant memory.
Jal Ka-tul could see that his enemy was one of their elite, for his armor had the markings of nobility. Jal spat in contempt and almost moaned as he felt his jaw shift the wrong way. He paused to look around, careful warrior to the bitter end. Nothing else moved, and the final death was but seconds away.
Elegan and Jal Ka-tul stumbled to within ten feet of each other, wretched remnants of the greatest armies in two kingdoms. Elegan raised his sword, but his battle cry was a choked grunt as he felt the wounds of the day clutching at his body. Jal kept quiet, marshalling his strength, weaving his morning star from side to side in rhythmic anticipation. Seconds passed, the deluge strengthened, lighting scarred the sky and thunder crashed all around.
With guttural grunts, both men lurched forward, Elegan slashing across and Jal smashing his morning star at the other's arm. Before the weapons could clash, lightning slammed into them, sizzling and crackling from one to the other, a skull-shaking thunderous roar slamming them both back and to the ground with the fury of a god denied.
Minutes passed. Then Jal groaned, followed by a coughing spasm from Elegan. They both rolled over, taking several seconds to breathe. Then they began searching for their weapons. Each crazed flash helped them, until they grasped their weapons and slowly, painfully, made their way to their feet.
Thunder boomed again and again as they faced off. Both men looked to the sky, then at each other. With a silent nod, they stepped back and dropped their weapons. Each began the slow, impossible process of removing his armor. The rain and wind became knives on their exposed flesh as piece by piece, ripping crusted wounds and causing new ones, Elegan and Jal Ka-tul stripped themselves of their armor.
Standing in loincloths, bloodied, bruised and shivering weaponless in the screaming rain, they stumbled forward to fight the final battle on the death-ground of two kingdoms.
Hours later, in the morning sun, the winner grabbed his weapon and staggered off with nary a glance at the corpses in his path.
A TARGET FOR BULLET
“You Hank Bullet?”
“No.”
“Wiseass. Mr. Bruno wants to see you. Now.”
I sipped my whiskey, neat, like my office wasn’t. “No.”
A meaty hand gripped my shoulder to make it bleed. “Nobody makes Mr. Bruno wait.”
I tried to finish my whiskey and managed to down it without spilling a drop or trembling. My shoulder was still being crushed. I threw a fin on the bar, my last one, and said casually, “Keep the change, Mike. These boys and I are heading out.”
Meaty Hand grunted and his partner--I’ll call him Red Donkey on account of his having a red face and a looked dumber than a post--escorted me to a big black car parked illegally in front of Mike’s. The cop on the beat frowned when he saw me, but hastily tipped his hat at Meaty and Donkey. The long arm of the law waving timidly at lawlessness. The ride was short and my only sally, “Can we swing by to pick up my laundry at Ho Ching’s?” was met with very obvious silence. Donkey drove like he owned the street and got us to our destination on the wharf about nineteen minutes less than legal speed limits and traffic laws allowed. We got out and Meaty pounded a huge metal door, drumming the silence of the smelly piers away.
We went in and up two flights of narrow stairs. At the top, we turned left down a narrow corridor, Meaty in front, the Ass in the rear, where it should be, until we reached a steel reinforced door that Meaty tapped with surprising gentleness. The door clicked open. Inside was a large florid-faced man with an expensive suit and silk tie that looked great on anyone else. His thinning hair was co
mbed over to within an inch of its straggly life. A cigar jutted out of a petulant mouth with piggy eyes above that. I was pushed into a chair close enough to smell very expensive toilet water on a cheap hood. Bruno reached into a drawer and drew out a large pack of bills and tossed it at me. I caught it easily. Weighed about five thousand dollars.
“That’s five grand, Bullet. Want youse to answer just one question.” He actually said “youse.” I nodded without saying “youse.” “Youse sleep with my wife?”
I glanced down at my nails, nicely trimmed and clean. “Who’s she?” Yeah, “who’s” rhymes with “youse.” I’m funny that way.
Bruno stared and chomped. “Lilybeth Bruno. Used to sing at The Continental.”
If singing involved getting naked onstage, then yeah, Lilybeth was a singer. I knew of her and bless my booties, I had never had carnal knowledge of her. Wanted to, though. But I didn’t bring that up. “No. Never slept with her.”
“Youse calling her a liar?” Bruno snorted. Two guns came out and clicked ready.
“Uh-huh.”
Bruno stared, glared and stared harder. Then he slumped back, a naked anguish so very hard to see on any man’s face making me look away at Meaty, and that made me look away, too.
“Aw, Christ, Bullet. This dame’s got me all twisted up. Check up on her and give me what youse find by next week. And don’t make me wait. I don’t like waiting.” He waved me away, but I, at least, wasn’t finished.
“How much youse paying me for this gig?” I swear it slipped out. No, really.
Bruno goggled, then grunted. “Another five grand when you finish. Ten more if youse kill the sonuvabitch.”
“An extra five’s fine,” I said and got up. Twenty minutes later I was back at Mike’s, Scotch on the rocks that Mike refused to serve to me until he saw my stash. I pondered Lilybeth and pulled out a coin. Heads, I’d do what Bruno asked. Tails, I’d find out how much Lilybeth really wanted to sleep with me. I flipped the coin and grunted as it landed in my drink.