He turned a sudden corner, and found himself walking down a Paris street. He recognized the style and the language and the sidewalk cafes. No one paid him any attention, though he gawked shamelessly like the most obvious tourist. He turned another corner and found himself in what appeared to be Europe in the Dark Ages. The road was a dirt track, and people and animals milled this way and that, all talking at once so that the air was full of sound. He didn’t recognize any of the languages. A few people glared suspiciously at Hart as he passed, but most just nodded politely. He trudged on through the thick mud and soon left the past behind him.
He passed through a dozen moments of history, different places with different styles and languages, from day to night and back again, and everywhere he went people smiled at him as though to say, Isn’t this fun? Isn’t this marvellous? And Hart smiled and nodded back, Yes, it is marvellous. Yes, it is. And just as suddenly he was back where he belonged, in the familiar world of cars and traffic lights and rock-and-roll blasting from a teenager’s ghetto blaster. He walked on, and the street stayed the same, and he didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
He came to a park and sat down on a wooden bench, to rest his mind as much as his feet. Two children in Ninja Turtles T-shirts were throwing a ball for their dog, a great shaggy beast of indeterminate breed, which seemed to be having some difficulty following the rules of the game. Sometimes it would chase after the ball, and other times it would just sit there and look at the boys, as if to say, You threw the ball, you go and fetch it. The dog looked across at Hart with bright, laughing eyes, its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Hart decided he identified with the dog. Shadows Fall was playing a game with him, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to play or not.
He looked unhurriedly about him, studying the park. It seemed tantalizingly familiar, like a word on the tip of your tongue that continues to elude you. His gaze stumbled over a great stone cenotaph in the middle of the park, and he felt a sudden thrill of almost recognition. The tomb looked harsh and uncompromising; a great solid block of stone on a raised dais, with letters etched into its side. Hart got up from the bench and walked over to get a better look at it. The words turned out to be Latin, a language he had only a vague familiarity with, but he recognized the word Tempus, set over a stylized bas-relief carving of Old Father Time, complete with long beard, scythe and hourglass.
“You look lost,” said a voice behind him, and Hart spun round, startled, to find himself facing a man about his own age, tall and dark-haired with a friendly smile and vague eyes. “I’m Leonard Ash. Can I help you in any way?”
“I don’t know,” said Hart carefully. “Maybe you can. I’m James Hart. I was born here, but I left town when I was still a child. This is my first time back. I don’t remember any of this at all.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Ash. “The town adjusts your memory when you leave. Nothing personal. It’s just a defence mechanism, to protect the town. After you’ve been here a while, all your old memories will come back to you. Better hold on to your hat, James. It’s likely to be a bumpy ride.”
“Thanks,” said Hart. “That’s very reassuring. Look; what the hell kind of place is this? I’ve been seeing all kinds of strange stuff…”
“And you’ll see more. Shadows Fall is a magnet for the strange and unusual. Not to mention unnatural. Just by being what it is, the town attracts people and places from all over. This is a place of magic and destiny, James. The beginning and end of all stories. You can find anyone or anything here. If they want to be found.”
“Listen,” said Hart, just a little desperately, “It’s a hot day, and I’ve come a long way. Before you destroy my sanity completely, is there any place around here where I can get a cold drink and something to eat?”
“Oh sure,” said Ash. “I don’t notice things like the heat any more. Come with me. There’s a decent little bar just around the corner; if it hasn’t moved itself again.”
He strode away, without looking back to see if Hart was following. Hart shook his head slowly, and hurried after him. If nothing else, Ash seemed willing to provide answers, even if they didn’t make much sense.
“That cenotaph,” he said, drawing alongside Ash. “Whose tomb is it? Who does it commemorate?”
“The Sarcophagus, you mean? That’s the tomb for Old Father Time, celebrating his death and rebirth at the end of each year.”
“Old Father Time,” said Hart.
“That’s right. If anyone could be said to be in charge around here, it’s him. He symbolizes the passing of time and the changing of the seasons, death and rebirth. Which makes him the most powerful being in Shadows Fall, though he prefers not to get involved unless he absolutely has to. Think of him as a kind of umpire, making sure everyone sticks to the rules. Shadows Fall tends to the chaotic as a matter of course, but you can always depend on Time to put things right. He’s a nice old fellow; I’ll take you to see him later on, if you like.”
Hart looked at him. “Would you mind running all that past me again; I think I fell off at the corner.”
Ash laughed, not unkindly. “Sorry; it’s just that you’ve come to a rather complicated place, and it plays hell with explanations. It’s best on the whole just to take things as they come. Keep your eyes and ears open, and your guard up. Things will become clearer after you’ve been here for a while. Or as clear as they’re ever likely to get. This is Shadows Fall. We do things differently here.”
They left the park behind them and walked down a street that looked reassuringly normal, until Hart happened to notice a gargoyle high up on a building casually buffing its claws with an emery file. A few people nodded to Ash, and he smiled vaguely at them in return.
“Why does the period keep changing?” Hart said finally, checking an approaching intersection cautiously. “Half the time I cross a street I end up in a different century.”
“Time is relative here,” said Ash casually. “Only don’t ask me relative to what. Basically, things, people and places end up here because they belong here, and naturally those of a particular period prefer to stick together. Which is why one area has electricity and sewers, and another has medieval squalor with hot and cold running plagues. And by the way, stay well clear of the park after it gets dark. It tends towards dinosaurs. Is any of this starting to seem familiar to you?”
“No,” said Hart. “I can’t honestly say that it is. Are we far from this bar, only a stiff drink is seeming more and more necessary by the minute.”
“Almost there,” said Ash. “You’ll like it, it’s very restful. James Hart… you know, the more I think about it, the more familiar that sounds. Wouldn’t it be fun if it turned out we were actually old friends, and didn’t know it? It’s quite possible. This town is lousy with coincidences. Ah, here we are…”
Hart studied the exterior of the bar suspiciously, but it seemed normal enough. Even so, he gestured for Ash to lead the way in. Inside it was pleasantly cool, the light just dim enough to be easy on the eye without being gloomy. Ash found them a table at the rear, and Hart settled himself comfortably while Ash went in search of liquid refreshment. There were half a dozen people scattered across the room, all of them reassuringly ordinary to the eye. It seemed pleasant enough, especially when compared to the grubby watering holes he usually did his drinking in. The kind of place where there’s no sawdust on the floor because the cockroaches have eaten it, and the glasses get dirtier when you wash them. Ash came back with two beers in frosted glasses, and Hart downed almost half of his in quick, desperate gulps. He sat back and sighed quietly, relishing the delicious chill as it moved slowly down his chest. He noticed Ash wasn’t drinking with him, and raised an eyebrow.
“Something wrong with your beer?”
“No,” said Ash. “Something wrong with me. I don’t drink any more, but I still like the smell, and the feel of a cold glass in my hand. Please don’t let me stop you. Drink up.”
Hart gave him a long, thoughtful look, t
hen shrugged mentally and drank some more of his beer. Ash seemed harmless enough, and he’d seen a lot stranger things in Shadows Fall than a man ordering a beer and not drinking it.
“So,” he said finally. “You think you remember me as a kid? What was I like?”
“I don’t really know,” said Ash, frowning. “It was a long time ago, after all. You were probably a bit of a toad, like most kids that age. I think back on some of the things I got away with, and it amazes me I ever survived to reach puberty. If you are the one I’m thinking of, you were very good at football, and even better at faking an illness whenever a teacher threatened a test. Ring any bells?” Hart shook his head, and Ash shrugged. “Don’t push it, James. You’ll remember everything, eventually. Whether you want to or not. What brings you back here, after all these years?”
“My parents died suddenly,” said Hart, staring into his glass. “That started me thinking about my past. Then I was made redundant, almost literally overnight, and I needed something to do. Something to keep me occupied. So here I am.”
Ash looked at him thoughtfully. “I have to warn you, James; you’ve chosen a bad time to return. Shadows Fall isn’t at its best right now. There’s a lot of anger and suspicion in the air, and it’s manifesting in rather unpleasant ways. To some extent, the town reflects the mood of those who live here, and the current climate is stirring up images and memories that would have been better left undisturbed.”
“Why?” said Hart. “What’s happened?”
Ash met his gaze steadily. “Seven people have been murdered, all in the space of a few weeks. Beaten to death with a blunt instrument. We’ve no clues, no suspects; nothing to point us in the right direction. There doesn’t seem to be any connection between the victims, so we have no way of predicting who the next victim might be. The whole town’s in a panic. Because of the town’s special nature we can’t call in outsiders to help, so we’re forced to rely on our own resources. Which are strained, to say the least. Our Sheriff is doing his best, but… ah, speak of the Devil and up he pops. The large gentleman heading in our direction is Sheriff Richard Erikson. Not a bad sort. For a Sheriff.”
He waved languidly at a dim figure by the door. Hart was impressed. Whatever else you could say about Ash, it seemed he had excellent eyesight. The Sheriff arrived at their table, looming ominously over them with an unsmiling countenance. Ash nodded to him, blatantly unimpressed, and gestured at an empty chair. The Sheriff sat down, sighing heavily as he stretched out his long legs. Ash made the introductions, and Hart nodded politely to Erikson. The Sheriff was a big man, not entirely overpowering, but definitely a powerful presence. Erikson looked at Hart thoughtfully.
“We would have been contemporaries,” he said slowly, “But I can’t say I remember you. You should look by the old school, check out their records. But I do remember your parents, Mr Hart. So should you, Leonard. There was quite an upset at the time.”
Ash sat up straight, and looked at Hart with new interest. “That Hart? You’re their son?”
“Apparently,” said Hart stiffly, not sure he liked the Sheriff’s tone or Ash’s reaction. “I’d be interested in anything you could tell me about my parents, or my time here. Do you know why they left?”
“I remember,” said the Sheriff. There was something that might have been sympathy in his stern face, but Hart didn’t relax. There was something bad coming in his direction. He could feel it, like the tremor of an approaching train in the steel tracks. The Sheriff leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I don’t know all the details. I don’t think anybody does, except possibly Old Father Time, but twenty-five years ago there was a prophecy concerning your parents. Something to do with them and the destruction of the Forever Door. Whatever the prophecy was, your parents sold off everything they had, took you and left town, all in less than twenty-four hours.”
“That’s it?” said Hart, as the Sheriff paused. “They just upped and left because of a damned fortune-teller?”
Erikson met his gaze steadily. “We take prophecies seriously here, Mr Hart. There are quite a few residents in Shadows Fall with some form of access to the future. When they talk, we listen.”
“Wait a minute,” said Ash, frowning. “With a prophecy of that importance, involving the Forever Door itself, why were they allowed to leave?”
“Good question,” said the Sheriff.
“All right,” said Ash, when it was clear the Sheriff had nothing more to say. “What about the town records? There should be some kind of record of the prophecy.”
“That’s right,” said Erikson. “There should. But there isn’t. It’s one of the great unsolved mysteries of the last twenty-five years. Which is why I find it rather strange that you should choose to return just now, Mr Hart, when the town is tearing itself apart. Are you sure you don’t know anything about this prophecy?”
“Not a damned thing,” said Hart steadily. “I have no memories of my time here, and my parents never talked of it. But now I’m here, I want to know more about it. Is there anyone I could talk to who might know something?”
“Old Father Time,” said Ash. “He’s your man. He knows everything. Mostly.”
“Would he see me?” said Hart. Ash looked at Erikson, who shrugged.
“He might. But don’t expect too much from him. He’s in the last part of his cycle, and his memory isn’t what it was. I have to go and see him myself later today. You can come along if you like, Mr Hart.”
“Thanks,” said Hart. “I’d like that.”
“I’m coming too,” said Ash. “I’m not missing this.”
Erikson gave him a hard look, and then shrugged. “Why not? The way things are at the moment, I can use all the friends I can get.”
Ash nodded understandingly. “Pressure still coming down from Above?”
“From everywhere. I’m doing all I can, but I don’t have the training for this. Never thought I’d need it. Murder is supposed to be impossible here. That’s part of the town’s nature; the only thing that makes it possible for so many conflicting parties to co-exist here peacefully. If that’s changed, for whatever reason, we’re in serious trouble. Right now, it’s taking everything I’ve got just to keep the peace. Are you going to drink that beer, Leonard? If not, pass it over here.”
Ash handed him the glass. “I seem to recall something about officers of the law not drinking when they’re on duty.”
“I think you have me confused with someone who gives a shit.” Erikson drank deeply, and then sighed wistfully. “What do you say; let’s take the afternoon off and really tie one on. I need a break. Come on; let’s get drunk and chase women.”
“I don’t think…” said Hart.
“All right; let’s get women and chase drunks. I don’t care.”
Ash looked at Hart. “The trouble is, I think he means it.”
There was a sudden commotion over by the bar, and they all turned to look. Half a dozen six-foot pixies with Technicolor hair and a weight problem were pushing and shoving an equal number of grizzly bears wearing biker’s jackets and chains. The bears had started shoving back, and the language was appalling. Erikson sighed heavily, and got to his feet.
“No rest for the wicked. Or those who might be wicked, given half a chance. I’d better do something before they wreck the place. See you again, Leonard, Mr Hart. Hope it all works out.”
He strode purposefully towards the disturbance at the bar. Ash shook his head dolefully. “The neighbourhood is going to hell, James. Either that, or hell is coming to the neighbourhood. One or the other. The town is not what it was.”
Hart looked at Ash steadily. “Excuse me if I’m getting too personal, Leonard, but is there something about yourself you’re not telling me? I mean; you don’t drink, you don’t feel the heat… and why are you dressed all in black?”
Ash smiled. “I’m in mourning for my sex life. And yes; there is something I haven’t been meaning to tell you. I’m a revenant, James. I died, and came back.”
&n
bsp; Hart sat up straight. The air seemed suddenly colder. He could feel his gut muscles tightening and the hair on the back of his neck rising as he realized Ash was quite serious. He cleared his throat carefully, not wanting his voice to be unsteady when he spoke. “You’re a ghost?”
“No,” said Ash patiently. “I’m a revenant. I have a body just as you do. Only yours is real and mine isn’t. It’s all very complicated. I don’t understand it all myself. The condition doesn’t exactly come with a user’s manual, you know.”
Hart looked at him thoughtfully, and Ash winced internally. He knew that expression. It meant the Question was coming.
“So,” said Hart casually. “What’s it like, being dead?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t really dead long enough to get the hang of it. What I do remember is pretty hazy. I had all the usual near-death and out-of-the-body experiences: hurtling down a long tunnel towards a brilliant light, hearing loud and mysterious voices. But maybe I only saw those things because I expected to. For all I know, they could have been just the last echoes of birth trauma. I’ll say this much for being dead; it means you’re never at a loss for something to talk about. It’s a great ice-breaker at parties. No matter how messed up your life is, it’s got to be better than mine.”
“At least you can remember your life,” said Hart. “Ten years of mine are missing. Leonard; are ghosts… commonplace here? Do all ghosts come to Shadows Fall?”
“Not without good reason. Why do you ask?”
“I just thought… my parents might…”
“I’m sorry,” said Ash. “It’s really not very likely. Look, let’s go and see Old Father Time. He understands more about these things than I do. And he should definitely know something about your prophecy and missing childhood. Assuming he can remember who he is today.”
Shadows Fall Page 4
