She was hardly a prisoner, yet no matter how often she approached the door that led outside, she could not bring herself to pass through. The tension in her head and chest became unbearable, yearning and fear swirling until her stomach knotted. She could not go outside again—not yet.
“Why are you keeping me here?” she cried one morning, as Bidewell carted in another load of boxes filled with books. “I’m sick of it! Just you and these cats!”
Bidewell snapped back, “I do not keep you here. Wherever you go, I’m sure you will find your way home—by the long route. That is your talent. The cats might miss you.” And then he walked off, knees snicking, and shut the white warehouse door with its oiled groan of counter-weights and pulleys.
Ginny kicked at a crate, then turned to see the smallest cat sitting on the floor, watching her with complacent curiosity.
“You’ve got everything you want,” she accused.
The cat’s tail thumped a sealed box. He stood on his haunches and vigorously scratched the cardboard, leaving a catly symbol, like an X with an exclamation mark. Then he marched off, tail high and twitching.
Sometimes he even nibbled the corners of the books on the worktable. Bidewell didn’t seem to mind.
With the appearance of the girl at his wire gate, Conan Arthur Bidewell had experienced three sharp emotions: irritation, exhilaration, and fear—the last, at his age, almost indistinguishable from joy. The air was thick with change. The girl’s appearance was after all no more miraculous than the condensation of a drop of rain from a moisture-laden cloud.
Yet now he knew: the work of many lonely years was coming to fruition. Why not joy, along with the inevitable palpitations of coming danger?
For too many decades, far too many, he had been lost in his books, charting the statistics of improbable change. What could be more desperate or more futile? Waiting for the sum-runners to sow their flowers and produce a new family for him and the warehouse. And now—
Bidewell had long been noting the changes in the literary climate. More and more significant finds were being sent his way, from all over the planet. (Pity they could not reach out to other planets! For similar events must be happening Out There, as well, puzzling other scholars—if they were as vigilant.)
The moods of his books had darkened and clouded over. This is the way the world ends—not with a bang, but a misprint.
He had noted other changes in the neighborhood—a decrease in mice and an increase in cats. The warehouse contained two more cats than it had before the girl’s arrival. They seemed to get along well with Minimus, his favorite. No doubt they all belonged to Mnemosyne—in their independent way.
And now Bidewell and the cats had a girl to keep them company, an unremarkable girl mostly, moody, guarding her emotions, as well she should. She was in a precarious situation. She believed she was eighteen years old. Bidewell knew better, but did not have the heart to tell her. Let them all discover the truth when they came together, for inevitably—despite the predators that searched them out and suppressed them, much as the cats reduced the warehouse’s population of mice—there would be others. Their time had come.
A time of conclusions.
Ginny had survived a downward spiral and a terrible shock. He saw that she needed to recuperate and so did not load her overmuch with chores. The girl performed her jobs well enough. She opened boxes and weeded through the least promising collections, and was becoming a discerning reader, no surprise, considering her origins. She might eventually be of real help, but Bidewell wondered whether they would have the time for her skills to develop to where she could make a real difference.
The work in the warehouse proceeded, though he already knew what he needed to know: that the past was responding like a barometer to a tremendous decrease in pressure. So little past remained, and hardly any future.
What one thought one remembered was not a reliable guide to what had actually occurred—not anymore.
History truly was bunk.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
Seattle
A busker must satisfy all of his customers. To women, he must be young, charming, and funny; an amusement hiding a brief yearning. To men, he must appear ragged and clownish—not a threat despite his youth and good looks. To children, he must be like one of them—if they could only sing and dance and juggle hammers and rats.
Jack was making decent money, about twenty-eight dollars in three hours, deposited by members of his occasional audience into a floppy canvas hat planted on the sidewalk outside the downtown Tiffany’s.
Today, as he had for two years, Jack was working with live rats. They were used to his tricks and he never dropped them—never. The rats may not have relished flying through the air, twisting their tails and heads, beady black or pink eyes flashing, seeing in spinning succession sky and ground and Jack’s hand, but there it was; they were gently caught and gently tossed, and then they were fed, and there was always something interesting to look at through the mesh of the cage as they groomed themselves. Rats had led worse lives.
By four o’clock the crowds fled the concrete canyons, on their way home, so Jack packed up the cage and impedimenta, hung them on the front and back fenders of his bike, and began the long haul out of downtown, up Denny to Capitol Hill.
He was reluctantly on his way to the Broadway Free Clinic. First, he made a stop at Ellen’s house. Her small gray bungalow was perched behind a slender garden topping a three-foot-high retaining wall, up two flights of concrete steps. She was still on a day trip out of town, so he found the key she had left hidden for him and stashed his rats high in the rafters of the old single-car garage, away from prowling cats.
Jack could be very handsome. He had made himself only slightly handsome around Ellen. Her longing was a puzzle—not motherly, not lustful—not entirely. He liked the attention. It made him feel rooted. She might remember him for weeks at a time—unlike everyone else. Still, he moved some small things around in the living room.
She had recommended the free clinic. “Even buskers need checkups,” she had said.
He thought about last week’s dinner. Ellen had set the table with fine silver, crystal, and antique china, and served up salmon in berry glaze with rice and buttered fennel root. She had regarded him with a peculiar mix of longing and caution when she thought he wasn’t looking, and he’d tried to reward her approval—without being too open.
She was not a hunter—not a spy. But vigilance was essential—especially when he felt safe.
As she’d asked, he brought in her mail, sorted and dumped the recyclables, then checked the moisture in her aspidistras and an indoor lemon tree by the broad front bay window.
Jack lingered for a few minutes, staring through the window across the street, and noted the distance between streetlights; wondered what the view would be like at midnight, in almost complete darkness, or better yet early in the morning, with all the lights off and just a glimmer of dawn. He could almost see it—the picture swam before him, this time overlaid by something else that could not and certainly should not have been there. The houses across the street seemed made of glass, and through them he spied a plain or desert, black as obsidian, studded with huge, indistinct objects—alive in their way, but full of hatred and envy, unforgiving.
With a groan, he closed his eyes, then shook his head until the afternoon light returned—and quickly drew the drapes.
The clinic waiting room was full. The doctors were dealing with seven moms and their sick children. Jack enjoyed children, but when they were not well or otherwise in real need, they made him feel uneasy, inadequate. With averted eyes, he listened to the coughing and snuffling, the crying, the fighting over toys.
He tapped his fingers on the wooden arm of the chair, beating out the same bouncing song he hummed under his breath when he juggled—more a series of tuneful grunts.
An elderly man stood as his name was announced and deposited a Seattle Weekly on the center table. Jack picked up t
he tabloid, flipped past the media reviews—he did not much like movies or television—and lingered over the articles on clubs and live music. Always looking for a few good tunes.
He was halfway through a formal analysis of a new fusion-Ska-grace band when the words on the page shifted left. His head whirred. Something seemed to hover before his eyes: a cloud of large winged insects, illuminated by a brilliant beam of light. Then they blurred and slipped off, smudging into the paintings on the clinic walls—past the chairs, the little children’s corner filled with toys.
A small fish tank bubbled away near the reception desk.
The bubbles froze.
The clinic fell silent.
He could see, but what he saw was skewed—rotating this way, then that, around a center point that expanded and changed color from red to blue to shades of brown and pink.
Then he looked directly into another pair of wide eyes, staring with an expression he could not read. He could not make sense of the face—too many contours—but there was nothing frightening about it. Somehow, he knew that this person was gentle, concerned, interested in him.
More than interested.
Behind the face, a receding tunnel opened onto artificial brightness. He became aware that his own face was foolishly slack, lids heavy.
He was dreaming again.
The face: flatter than he was used to, pug nose tipped with pink hairs, thick reddish fuzz reaching to her cheeks, tiny ears.
As one set of biological opinions took over from the other, he found the face attractive, then more than that—beautiful. A hint of concern and sadness became attached to his desire.
His own hair felt different—bunched back, spiky and short, more furry bristle than hair. He tried to take control of his lips and tongue, but it was not easy. Whatever sounds he made were bound to be garbled. He fumbled at his ears with questing fingers. They felt like hot button mushrooms.
The female with the flat pink nose wiped his forehead with a slender hand. She spoke again. Gabble, gabble, gabble, but pretty. She might be reciting poetry—or singing. Colors in his vision ran riot. He could not tell whether she was blue or brown or pink. Then, like a picture coming into focus, he acquired one frame of language and dropped another, colors became natural, and speaking was easier. Command of his body—at least of face and mouth—became more confident.
“You’re back,” she said. “How wonderful. Do you remember me?”
“I don’t…think so,” he said, well aware neither of them was speaking English, nor any language he had ever heard before.
“What do you remember?”
He looked at the curved ceiling. Large winged insects—bigger than his hand, with shining black cylindrical bodies—hung upside down, crawling. Each had a letter or symbol on its back. They moved into parallel, seemed to want to form rows—and thus make words. He could not read the words. Still, everything around him was real—absolute, with a solid, repeatable feel.
“This isn’t a dream, is it?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. Not on this side.”
“How long…?”
“You’ve been twitching for a while. Less than a…” She used a word he could not capture and hold, so it slipped away.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but there is a protocol. We made it up. Your body-mate is a little…” Another word, embarrassing in whatever context it might have had. “He left you a message, which I have improved upon. To inform you of where you are, and what not to do.”
He could not turn his head, so she raised a square black cloth covered with glittering red and yellow writing—a shake cloth.
“I can’t read,” he said.
“I’ll read it for you.”
“My name is…” But he had already forgotten who he had been and where he had been…before he was here. He tried to stand up, but his body tingled and he fell back.
She touched her ear and then her nose in sympathy. That was like smiling, maybe. “Never mind. Let’s try this first. You appear to come from a time very far from this one. If you are real, and not a trick of the Tall Ones, then you should be taught some facts.”
She turned the square and read the glittering words.
“‘Welcome, polar opposite! I have been going astray of late, and assume you are the culprit. There is little to tell you, other than what you plainly see; I am of the ancient breed, poor enough and adventurous. If you are from the immediate future, please do not leave evidence of our fate; I prefer not to know. If you are from the past, then all I can say is that clocks no longer keep the time. Still, life is happy enough—if you stay humble. Otherwise, the Tiers can be cruel. If you are from the immediate past, and want to walk around, take care of my body—and do not dally with any attractive glows you might meet.’” At this, the female’s face became wreathed in dimples and curves. “‘You may amuse yourself by fighting in the skirmishes.’”
“No, you won’t,” the female added, glancing at him. Then she continued, “‘There have been changes since you were here last. We’re going on a march. And that’s all I know. But I hope to know more.’”
The female looked up, hopeful. “That’s all he managed to set down,” she concluded. “Does it make sense? We’d like to know all you can tell us, of course—anything you want to tell us.”
She was obviously concerned about his reaction to the message, which was already fading in his thoughts. I’ve seen her before. But was that “before” before—or after—this?
No sequence.
Remember, Mnemosyne!
“I’m confused,” he managed to say, his mouth numb again. “If I stay here…for a while—I’ll need to learn. Could you teach me?”
“That would be my delight,” the female answered. “Though you rarely stay long. Are you from the future, or from the past?”
“I don’t know. Is this…the Kalpa?”
“It is!” she cried out in delight. “The Tiers are inside the Kalpa, at the bottom, I think. We are very humble. You do remember!”
“Only some things…I remember you.”
“We’ve never met, until now,” she said, with pretty concern. “But Jebrassy has told me about you…a little.”
“What’s your name? Wait…it’s Tiadba, isn’t it?”
She was even more delighted, but puzzled. “Did he tell you that? What’s your name?”
“I don’t know. This is where I go when I stray, isn’t it?”
“Where you go, and whom you visit. But where do you come from?”
“I don’t remember. It’s all mixed up.”
Tiadba showed concern. He could see that, but the way her face made expressions, the way her cheek and jaw and lip muscles moved, was strange…Strange and lovely. She had such tiny ears and her eyes were large, almost like the eyes of a…
Another word lost.
He squinted at the ceiling. He could almost read what the letterbugs were spelling out. Insect pets that spelled out words. “What are they doing?” He tried to lean forward, get up, stand again. Too fast, too much. His eyes lost focus and his vision skewed. Shutters seemed to clack and close around him. He did not want to leave, not when he was on the brink of learning more, with this beautiful female to help him. He had been so lonely for so long!
He tried to reach out, but his hands wouldn’t move.
“I’m falling. Hold onto me,” he said, angry that his lips were so thick and clumsy.
“Try to stay, try harder!” Tiadba grabbed his hands, his arms. She was surprisingly strong. But all sense was draining from his head and body and limbs. The last thing he saw was her face, her eyes—brown—her flat, expressive nose—
Jack’s awareness squashed down to a fuzzy point, something whirred and snapped—the point expanded—vertigo turned into blurs of light—and he was back.
He blinked at the fish swimming in their tank, listened woozily to the hum of the waiting room’s heating system. Tried to hang onto what he had experie
nced—especially the face, the female, and the letterbugs, a weird idea—fun, actually—but by the time he realized where he was, everything slipped away except a sense of panic. Someone was in desperate trouble.
Here, there—now, then?
That urgency faded as well.
Jack looked around. The families had been reduced to a lone mother in a sari and her sleeping infant. An elderly couple had taken seats nearby. Embarrassed, he looked at his watch. He had blanked for thirty minutes. Somehow, he had kept turning the pages.
He folded the newspaper and put it in his satchel.
The attending nurse stood in the door to the waiting room. “Jack Rohmer? Dr. Sangloss will see you now.”
CHAPTER 11
* * *
First Avenue South
Ginny pushed a handcart stacked high with boxes down aisles formed by more boxes, having caught the knack of steering with the single long handle, like a backward toy wagon—anticipating the turns, working everything in reverse. These boxes arrived two days ago and had been dumped unceremoniously on the warehouse’s cold but dry loading dock, beneath a corrugated tin overhang. So many boxes—where did they all come from? Where did Bidewell get the money to send out all his scouts, buy all these books, have them shipped from around the world?
More mysterious still, why?
She pushed the handcart to the sorting table in the same corner as her sleeping area. She had walled off her bed with crates and boxes. Books do make a room.
The warehouse was heated, fortunately—everything maintained at a steady sixty-five degrees, and dry. Bidewell may have been mad, but he did not collect just to collect, then allow his items to mildew and spoil.
As Ginny unloaded the boxes, Bidewell stepped in through the rolling steel door that led to his library and private rooms. In the same dark brown suit he always wore, his ancient body made a gentle question mark against the door’s dingy whiteness. He paused, then took a shuddering breath, as if lost in weary contemplation, perhaps of a job never to be completed; work beyond anyone’s power to finish.