“You speak very freely of death, Madeleine, but you don’t know anything. Shall I show you what it really is, what it really means? Shall I teach you the secrets of the grave, and the comfort of the earth?”
Mad’s face was drained of all colour, her makeup standing out starkly against her staring eyes. She was trembling violently, but even so she wouldn’t retreat a step. Ash’s smile widened, and there was no humour in it at all.
“All right, that’s enough of that.”
The calm, dry voice broke the mood like a shock of cold water. Ash looked round to see who’d spoken, and Mad ran a shaking hand across her mouth, as though waking from a nightmare. Hart began to breathe more easily, and some of the ice went out of his veins. He looked briefly at Ash with new eyes, and then looked to see who’d spoken. The newcomer walked unhurriedly out of the maze of machinery to join them; a gaunt man in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed to the height of mid-Victorian fashion. His long black coat was of a fine but severe cut, and apart from the gold watch-chain gleaming brightly across his waistcoat, the only flash of colour was the apricot-coloured cravat at his throat. He stood before them, smiling benignly, like a favourite uncle. An air of quiet authority hung about him like a cloak, only slightly undermined by a certain vagueness.
“You really must stop provoking poor Mad,” he said sternly to Ash. “Just because you’re dead, it doesn’t mean you can forget your manners. Now give her back her knife.”
“Sorry,” said Ash, casually handing Mad her knife. “It won’t happen again.”
“No you’re not, and undoubtedly it will, but let that pass for the nonce. It’s good to see you here again, Leonard. Can I hope that you’ve finally decided to do the right thing, and pass through the Forever Door at last?”
“I can’t go,” said Ash. “Not yet. My parents still need me. It was their need that brought me back, and their refusal to let me go that still holds me.”
Time sniffed dismissively. “You’ve told me that before, and I didn’t believe it then. Still, it’s your life, or rather your death, and I can’t tell you what to do with it.” He turned to Hart, who straightened up and stood a little taller despite himself under the firm but kindly gaze. Time was handsome enough in an old-fashioned way, with a determined chin and a stern brow. He had a thinning mane of long white hair, brushed back from his high forehead and left to lie where it would, but it was his eyes that caught the attention. Time had very old eyes, old and more than a little tired. And very, very knowing. Hart felt six years old, and too impressed by the old man’s sheer presence even to feel annoyed. Time smiled understandingly.
“So, you’re Jonathon Hart’s boy, are you? Yes, you’ve your father’s face. Never thought to see it here again, though I of all people should know better than to use the word never, hmm? Especially about anything to do with Shadows Fall.” He sniffed disparagingly and shook his head, and then a nearby dial caught his eye and he reached out to regulate the pressure with a few turns of a handy wheel. He glared at the dial, apparently displeased with what he saw, and rapped imperiously at the glass face with one knuckle. He waited a moment and then sniffed again, only just satisfied by the new reading. He turned back to Hart.
“Can’t turn your back on anything round here; there’s always something needs doing. Still, don’t take anything you see here too literally, young man; not even me. We all tend to vary somewhat, according to the eye of the beholder. The human mind tends to adjust and tone down things it finds too complex or disturbing. Think of all this as a metaphor, if that makes you feel more comfortable. Now then, young man, we must talk. Things are happening, or will happen soon, and you’re right in the middle of it.”
“Me?” said Hart. “What did I do? I only just got here.”
“That was enough,” said Time. “Your return has set in motion a chain of events that will affect us all; a wheel of destiny whose time has come round at last. And whether you like it or not, you are in it up to your lower lip and sinking fast. The prophecy will be fulfilled, no matter what you or I or anyone else can do.”
“I could leave Shadows Fall,” said Hart.
“No, you couldn’t,” said Time, not unkindly. “The town wouldn’t let you.”
“But you’re supposed to be in charge of everything here…”
“Hah! No, my boy, I’m more of an overseer, an umpire who sees that everyone sticks to the rules. I’m not even human, as you would understand the term. I am the physical incarnation of an abstract concept, both more and less than human. I exist because I’m necessary, but even I, more than anyone else, have to follow the rules. I’m not even immortal, strictly speaking. I live for exactly one year, age from babe to ancient, and then die and rise again from my ashes, which is a lot messier than it sounds. Each time I’m reborn I have access to all my previous memories, but am I the same person, or merely a new being with access to someone else’s memories? It’s an interesting distinction, and one I’ve been pondering for centuries without getting any closer to an answer. Still, that’s Shadows Fall for you. I am the power that holds this town together, but it is the town that decides its future. All I get to do is nudge things in the right direction. Mostly I get the feeling I’m only along for the ride.”
“Nudge,” said Ash. “Not quite the word I would have used. Speaking of the devil’s henchman; where is Jack Fetch?”
“About my business,” said Time. His eyes were suddenly cold, but the smile he turned on Hart was reassuring. “You don’t want to believe everything you hear about Jack. He’s my assistant; helps enforce the rules when necessary. Not the easiest of fellows to get along with, but I’ve always found him very loyal. He’s not a bad sort, really, just rather direct in his methods.”
“Direct,” said Ash. “That’s another good word.”
“You’re here on sufferance, Leonard,” said Time. “Don’t push your luck. Now then, my dear James, you’re looking at me somewhat strangely. Is something wrong?”
“No, not really. I was just wondering, well… why Victorian?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Time. “It’s your subconscious. I’ve no doubt Leonard sees me very differently, but then, being dead he’s more able to bear the truth of my reality. I fear my true nature is a little too much for most people. Don’t worry about it too much, my boy. However you see me, it’s real enough. I’m just… translated by your mind into something more comfortable to deal with, hmm? You’ll find a lot of things are like that in Shadows Fall.”
“So I can’t see what you really look like, but Ash can?”
“The dead have few illusions,” said Time.
Ash shook his head firmly as Hart looked at him. “Don’t ask, James. Trust me on this. You don’t want to know.”
“Let’s get back to what you actually do,” said Hart, just a little doggedly. “You decide how things should be, or the town does and you pass it on, and then Jack Fetch deals with anyone who disagrees. Right?”
“Pretty much,” said Mad, in the tone of someone who’d been left out of the conversation entirely too long, and wasn’t at all pleased about it. “Time makes the decisions that matter. He protects the town and the Door.”
“Protects?” said Hart. “Protects from who?”
“Shadows Fall has its enemies,” said Mad flatly. “And whoever controls the Forever Door controls the town. Time keeps us all safe. There’s always some sneaky bastard ready to plunder the various times and realities, and to hell with the consequences. Thieves, conspirators and general ratbags. Time sniffs them out and sends Jack Fetch to fix their wagon. Jack kicks ass.” She smiled unpleasantly at Hart. “You have to meet Jack before you go. He’s dead interesting, is Jack.”
“That’s enough, my dear,” said Time. “Just because Jack isn’t real, it doesn’t mean that at heart he isn’t a nice person. If he had a heart, that is. Jack has many fine and sterling qualities; it’s just that in his line of work, he doesn’t get to show them much. Now James… pay attention, young man! I’
m not talking for the pleasure of hearing myself speak.”
“Sorry,” said Hart quickly, looking away from a clock face that had caught his eye. It was running backwards. “I’m listening. Please continue.”
“Well,” said Time, a glint in his eye suggesting he was not entirely mollified, “suffice to say I oversee and maintain the various times and realities that are attracted to Shadows Fall by its unique nature. People and places are constantly coming and going; it’s that sort of place. I keep track of them all, through my portraits and other methods. I see all and know most, here, there and everywhere, and try not to trip over my own feet too often.” He broke off, and smiled at Mad. “I seem to be getting a little dry. I’m not used to so much talking. Why don’t you make us all a nice cup of tea?”
Mad nodded curtly, and glared at Ash and Hart. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’m missing you already,” said Ash gallantly.
Mad gave him one of her best sniffs, turned on her heel and left. Her back radiated disdain.
Time started to say something admonishing to Ash, and then stopped and looked over Ash’s shoulder. “You wanted to see Jack Fetch, James, and it seems you’re in luck. Here he comes now.”
Ash and Hart looked quickly back, and turned round sharply as they heard footsteps approaching outside the closed door. The footfalls were slow and steady and somehow… soft, as though whoever was approaching was wearing padded slippers. The thought disturbed Hart on some deep level, though he couldn’t say why. The soft sounds were somehow too diffuse, not solid enough. They finally stopped outside the door, and in the long pause that followed, everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Hart could feel the hackles rising on the back of his neck, and was suddenly very sure he didn’t want to see what was on the other side of the door.
And then the handle turned and the door opened, and Jack Fetch walked in on springy legs. He was a scarecrow, a thing of rags and sticks and straw. He should have looked quaint and old-fashioned, charming in a traditional rural way, but there was nothing reassuring or comforting about Jack Fetch. He was a human figure formed entirely of unliving, inanimate details, from his straw-stuffed shirt to his twiggy feet to the grotesquely carved turnip that was his head. He reminded Hart of a toy he’d once had, grown vague and frightening in his bedroom after the light had been turned off. Jack Fetch was made of things that did not live, and never should have lived, but moved now by the workings of some unnatural will. He wasn’t a puppet or a tool, like Time’s automatons; Jack was alive and aware and not in the least human. Hart could sense it, in his bones and in his water. The great turnip face turned slowly on its wooden neck, looking from Hart to Ash to Old Father Time, and of them all Time was the only one who met the dark, unblinking gaze. The scarecrow slowly advanced on them, the bound twigs of his feet making light scratchy sounds on the bare wooden floor, like rats scuffling across a barn’s floor, and then he came to a halt before Time, bowed jerkily once, and was still. Hart looked at the unmoving creature and didn’t know whether he wanted most to hit it or run away.
“Jack Fetch,” Ash said softly. “In Shadows Fall mothers tell their children to be good, or Jack Fetch will come for them. And sometimes he does. How many have you killed today, Jack? There’s blood on your hands.”
Hart looked automatically at the battered leather gloves that were the scarecrow’s hands, and his heart jumped in his chest as he saw the dark stains that speckled the gloves. Time made a soft tutting noise.
“Jack, you know you’re supposed to clean yourself up before you come to see me. What will our guests think, hmm? Even so, Leonard, I’ve told you before; you’re not to be rude to him. His feelings are easily bruised, and you know how hard it is to get good help these days. Jack is my good right hand, and I rely on him to see that things are run as they should be run, for the town’s sake. Even the most indulgent father must be stern on occasion.”
“Who did you send your dog after today?” said Ash flatly.
Time shrugged. “The Lords of Order and the Dukes of Chaos have been arguing over fractals again and breaking up the furniture. This new science of Chaos Theory has caused more trouble on the aetheric planes than you’d think possible. I don’t know why they can’t just agree to disagree. Be that as it may, Jack quietened them down easily enough. He’s a persuasive fellow, when he wants to be. Well done, Jack. Return to the Gallery of Frost, and I’ll see you later.”
The scarecrow stood unmoving for a long moment, and then slowly turned his turnip head to stare at Hart. The carved smile and empty eyesockets held no warmth or sign of emotion, but there was a thoughtful deliberation to the stare that Hart found chilling. It was as though he was being studied and weighed and found wanting, in some silent Court from which there was no appeal. He fell back a step involuntarily, and the scarecrow moved after him. Time called sharply for Jack to stop, but the scarecrow went silently after Hart as he continued to back away. He made no sound, save for the scratching of his twiggy feet on the wooden floor, but still Hart could read purpose in his slow, unhurried advance.
Time came up behind him, calling the scarecrow’s name with increasing anger, and finally took him by the arm. Jack Fetch shrugged him off without even looking round. There was an unnatural strength in the unliving body, and Hart knew on some deep primal level that if Fetch caught him, he could tear him apart as easily as a child might pull apart a stuffed toy. Hart’s back slammed up against a wall, and there was nowhere left to go. His breathing was fast and shallow, like a bird in a cage being menaced by a cat, but still it never occurred to him to fight. He somehow knew there was no point, that Jack Fetch was not something that could be stopped by human strengths.
And then there was a cry and a scream and a black-clad figure threw itself furiously at the scarecrow, sending him staggering to one side. Madeleine Kresh rode the scarecrow’s back like a jockey, her legs wrapped round his upper arms, her hands tearing at his turnip face. He quickly regained his balance, and reached up with his gloved hands. Mad spat at them, and cut at the nearest hand with her knife. Jack Fetch ignored her attacks, grasped her firmly by the arms and removed her easily from his person. He set her down, and pushed her firmly to one side. Mad stabbed him in his stuffed belly, her blade ramming home three times in swift succession, but no blood ran from the ragged cuts in his shirt. Mad stood there stupidly, and the scarecrow turned his attention back to Hart.
Ash stepped forward and stood between the two of them, his pale disquieting eyes fixed on the scarecrow’s empty stare. And in that moment he drew his true nature about him again, and became terrifying. Mad felt its power and fell back despite herself. Even Hart could feel some of it, though it wasn’t directed at him, and his blood chilled in his veins. Jack Fetch stood staring at the dead man, and then reached out with his gloved hands, took him by the arms and moved him gently but firmly to one side. Ash stumbled and almost fell, as though just the touch of the scarecrow’s hands had drained the strength right out of him. Jack Fetch looked again at Hart, and stepped deliberately forward so that he was standing right in front of him. There was sawdust on his breath, stale and scratchy in Hart’s throat as he breathed it in.
It’s come for me, was all he could think. It came for my parents, but they were already gone. So now at last it’s come for me.
The room had grown quiet, as Time and Mad and Ash watched helplessly to see what the scarecrow would do. Of them all, only Time had made no real move to stop him, presumably because he knew Fetch couldn’t be stopped once he had been set in motion, that whatever was about to occur had the weight of destiny behind it. And as Hart watched with wide and staring eyes, Jack Fetch dropped jerkily to one knee and bowed his turnip head to him. And then he got to his feet, turned away and walked off, disappearing back through the door he had left ajar earlier. There was an almost explosive sigh of relief from those who’d been holding their breath, and Time looked strangely at Hart.
“In all the time I’ve known Jack, he’s neve
r done that to anyone. Not even me.”
“So what does it mean?” said Mad, reluctantly putting her knife away.
“I don’t know,” said Time abruptly. “But it is extremely interesting. I’m going to have to think about it.”
Hart had to swallow hard to clear his throat, but when he finally spoke his voice was cool and even. “Did you send… that after my parents, when they decided to leave Shadows Fall? Is that why they never dared come back?”
Time pursed his lips thoughtfully before answering. “The prophecy concerning you and your family was annoyingly vague, as most oracles are, but the sense seemed clear enough. The fate of the Forever Door, and that of the whole town, is linked in some way to you. You would not have been harmed, had you stayed. Only watched, and considered. We could have stopped you leaving, but we chose not to. For all our human and inhuman natures, Shadows Fall has always done its best to behave in a civilized manner.”
“Yeah,” said Ash. “Jack Fetch is really civilized.”
“Well,” said Hart, meeting Time’s gaze steadily, “Now I’m back, what are you going to do?”
“Watch and observe,” said Time calmly. “Please understand, James; Shadows Fall is important. The world needs a place like this, where the boundaries of the real can relax, and all lost souls can find their way home at last. The Forever Door is a pressure valve, where the world can let off steam safely, and let go those things that no longer fit. And you threaten all that, my boy, just by being here. If the Door were ever destroyed, or this town obliterated, the psychic shock would throw the whole world into madness and violence. Fires would be started that would burn for eternities, and the long night would never end. There are forces in the universe that will not be denied, James, both inside and outside Shadows Fall.”
Shadows Fall Page 9
