by J. R. Wagner
He was so old she couldn’t guess his age. The closer she stepped, the older he looked. By the time she reached the pit, he looked as if his flesh would blow away with the slightest breeze before he could mutter a word. She’d heard of him, her husband had seen to that.
He had summoned her, and she’d been told that he hadn’t summoned anyone in over a generation. Rumors spread like wildfire around the small village where she had been staying. Onlookers peered out of darkened doorways as she passed. Whispers in far corners resonated like cicadas on a summer night.
As was tradition, according to her husband, she bowed ever so slightly as her bare toes touched the edge of the pit. The man let out a slow breath, and Margaret sat on the stone floor. The moment her legs touched the ground a shadow danced across the old man’s face, wiping away the fragility and leaving behind that of a much younger man. She smelled an unfamiliar fragrance emanating from the fire, and her head began to spin. Shadows and light blurred together. She reached for her head, but before she made contact, the feeling subsided.
“Why are you here?” the old man asked with a hoarse whisper in a tongue she knew she could not understand—yet she did.
“You have summoned me here, Sir,” she replied.
“Please let us agree to continue with the understanding that no question asked should be hastily answered. Think, understand, speak.”
Margaret nodded.
“Why are you here?” he asked again.
There was an extended pause before Margaret replied, “Doubt.”
“And what is it you doubt?”
“I was raised in a world of certain truths,” Margaret said after a lengthy pause. “Those truths have been tested. Absolutes left with my childhood. Now all that exists are beliefs and convictions.”
“So, after years of ignorance you’re finally coming around?” he asked and grinned slightly.
“I confess nothing. I’ve seen or heard nothing that has convinced me this is the correct path.”
“It is not a path of right or wrong, my dear. Many right people trod this path, and, unfortunately, there were some who were not meant to follow it at all. Something has tested what you believed to be true, otherwise you never would have come.”
“I seek answers.”
“Unfortunately it is not answers I give. I am but a seer. What beholds you is more than any one person should bear. It is not my place to decide if those with whom I speak are strong enough to grasp what I tell them. It is only my place to tell them.”
Margaret nodded. She’d gone from feeling confident to insignificant to terrified in less than a minute. The man took another breath. He looked up at her for the first time. His eyes appeared to glow brighter than the embers reflecting in them.
“Your son will not be ordinary. Much tragedy will befall him. Those he holds dearest will be lost. He must be given the strength to endure the pain this will bring. I see greatness. I also see malice . . . anger. How he rises from the horrors that will plague him will determine the path he follows. No skill shouldn’t he acquire. No knowledge should be withheld. He will be tested. Whether he passes will fall on your shoulders as well as his father’s.”
“His father,” Margaret murmured instinctively.
“While you may believe otherwise, his father has much to teach him. Lessons that can only be passed from father to son. Your son is weak. Strengthen him. There is little time.”
The man exhaled and lowered his head. He did not speak again. After several minutes, Margaret stood, turned, and padded across the floor toward the exit. She slipped on her sandals and made her way back up the narrow earthen steps that wrapped tightly along the side of the boulder just beyond the entrance. The only signs of her escorts were several massive paw tracks in the damp ground.
Margaret reflected upon her brief meeting as she walked down the leaf-covered hill to the main path. She thought of her husband, James Lochlan Stuart III, who had directed her here. Roughly a year ago something changed in him. Prior to that, he would have been considered a staunch traditionalist. Never had he politically deviated from the doctrines of his family. That is, never before he met the man, Ogilvy.
England. It’s so far away. How did I end up on the other side of the world? she thought. Was it true, this prophecy? Her life had been turned upside down. Her beliefs shattered like glass with each piece of evidence that suggested this world did indeed exist. Instinct told her to follow her husband to the remote reaches of northern India. She clung to doubt because the alternative thrust her into a world she did not understand and Margaret must maintain control. Now a new path lay before her. A path which neither she nor her husband controlled. For the first time in her life, Margaret felt powerless.
— 6 —
The Falls
Water runs downhill. James repeated the sentence to himself over and over as he pushed his way through the thick underbrush that once again tore at his skin. The elevation continued to rise. Several times during his ascent the steepness required James to use his hands. After nearly an hour of skin-tearing, cramp-inducing climbing, the ground leveled. The dense undergrowth, which had thankfully transitioned from the spiny flesh-tearing plants to more forgiving vegetation, still prevented James from gaining a good perspective of his surroundings. He decided to follow a subtle depression as it trended downward and inland. All the while thoughts of the black castle plagued his subconscious.
As he continued, the depression widened and steepened. The steeper it grew, the more choked with underbrush it became.
The time he calculated that it would take him to reach the bottom had come and gone. It was at this point that he began to doubt his presumption. As the underbrush was at its thickest, the leaf litter he’d been walking on for over an hour slowly gave way to stone. He could make out a clearing ahead. He pushed through the final row of plants and into the clearing.
Large, flat, oval rocks surrounded a teal-blue pool of water. On the far side of the pond, nestled in the face of a cliff, stood a small, crudely built structure. Overwhelmed by thirst, James ran toward the pool. As he reached the edge he dropped to his knees and cupped his hands in the water. He brought his hands to his mouth.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said from behind.
He turned quickly, spilling the water. A woman stood over him holding a spear at the ready. She was taller than James by half a head. Her hair was dark and unkempt. Her clothes, if you could call them clothes, hung by threads over her shoulders.
“Let me drink or run me through.”
“You cannot drink the standing water. You will die before your throat moistens. And death, when it comes will be most horrible,” she said casually, lowering her spear. “Come with me, boy, and I will take you to water.”
She set the spear on the ground and extended her hand. It was only then that James realized he wasn’t wearing any clothes. She studied him as if she’d never seen a naked man before. When their eyes met, she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him upright with more strength than he thought possible from a woman who seemed so frail. He studied her face and realized that she must be at least ten years older than he. She held his gaze for a moment, then turned and headed toward the structure on the far side of the pool. She was careful to keep her distance from the edge of the water as she deftly stepped upon the smooth stones. James followed, finding it nearly impossible to keep pace with the strange woman.
Once they reached the structure she motioned for him to wait outside. She ducked through the opening. James inspected the carefully stacked stones, some of them larger around than any tree that made up the walls of the structure. As he tried to imagine how she could have possibly stacked the stones by herself, she returned. She gently handed him a pair of dirty looking pants. He nodded in thanks, and she turned her back as he pulled them on. The pants were stained with something that looked like blood, and the lower legs of the pants were torn away. Nevertheless, James was happy to have some protection from the flesh-tearing
plants.
“Thank you,” he said.
She turned, smiled, and stepped past him without a word.
“What’s your name?” asked James.
“Kilani.”
James noticed a coil of rope hanging from her shoulder. They silently followed a well-worn trail along the cliff face. The rocky ground gave way to soft leaf litter as they moved further from the pool.
The woman stopped suddenly. She removed the rope from her shoulder and turned toward him.
“Now we may drink,” she said.
James couldn’t see any water as she made a large loop in one of the pieces of rope. She threw the unlooped end over a thicker piece of rope James hadn’t noticed that was tied to a large tree along the trail just above his head. She tied a second knot, gave the rope a tug, and repeated the process with a second coil of rope. The woman lifted one of the loops over her head and sat in the center as a child would in a swing. Without warning she pushed off the ground with her feet and glided away. James could now see why she had stopped so abruptly. The trail ended in what appeared to be a bottomless chasm. Nothing but blackness lay below. James’s head began to spin as he watched the woman pull herself out into the middle along the cliff face. The large rope that held her sling was strung from the far end of the chasm to the tree beside him. She was moving toward a waterfall that spilled out from the center of the stone face. James looked again down into the black abyss and was unsettled more by the realization that he could not hear the water splashing into a pool. Strangely enough, James had a feeling of familiarity as he looked into the abyss. Even now, the black castle urged his quick return.
Having never been fond of heights, the idea of following her was not something he would have considered even if his powers were working. The woman waved him on. He shook his head.
“There must be somewhere else we can find water,” he yelled.
“No need to yell, sound travels far here,” came her reply. It was as if she were still standing beside him.
“You will die before we reach the other watering site. Come! Drink,” she said as if inviting him in for an afternoon cup of tea.
He stepped forward, grasped the loop in front of him, and gave it a pull. He screamed in pain as the muscles in his shoulder seized. There was no denying it and no more delaying it. He needed water. After a moment of rubbing, the cramping subsided enough for him to lift himself into the sling.
James lowered himself until all his weight rested on the rope. The supporting line held firm. Slowly he moved toward the edge. He turned, his back toward the edge, and grasped the supporting line that held his sling and his life.
“Trust and move forward,” she whispered.
The words relaxed James. He took a breath and pushed away from the edge. The sling slid along the supporting line with no discernable friction. He focused his mind on breathing and his eyes on his white-knuckled hands as the place where he stood a moment ago rapidly grew distant.
He came to a stop with a jerk. He looked over his shoulder and saw the woman beside him. She gave a sympathetic smile.
“You must relax or you will seize again. You will require all of your strength,” she said.
James looked past her at the waterfall. Several ropes hung down the cliff face and into the water of the falls.
“We’re running out of time,” she said, pulling herself directly in front of the falls, which were eerily silent. “Do as I do.”
She lifted herself in the sling and slid it under her knees while holding on to the upper section. With one hand extended toward the falls, she began to swing. Expecting the supporting line to sway James clenched his sling. The line did not sway. Finally, her hand penetrated the water, and she grasped a rope. To James’s horror she released the sling so its only means of attachment to her body was tucked behind her knees. She grasped the rope that hung over the cliff with both hands. Kilani pulled herself into the streaming water headfirst and drank. James tried to fight off the panic gripping his body. He could feel his muscles tense. He closed his eyes and began to recite the primer incantation his father had taught him when he was just a child. He called it the primer incantation because it readied the mind for more complex magic. A hand grasped his shoulder.
James opened his eyes. Kilani’s dark hair was wet, and she looked rejuvenated. She nodded and slid down the support line, allowing him to position himself directly in front of the falls. He stared at the rope he needed to reach.
Before he could change his mind, he pulled himself up in the sling and slid the rope beneath his knees. He could feel his arms ready to cramp under the strain of his weight. Slowly, he lowered himself back down, allowing his legs to absorb some of the tension. He looked over at Kilani, who nodded reassuringly. After a deep breath, he shifted his weight. The sling moved away from the cliff face and rocked back toward it as he extended his legs just a fraction and leaned slightly back. As he drew closer to the dangling rope, he knew he had only one chance at grasping it. With a final swing he released the sling with his left hand and reached for the rope. He plunged his hand into the streaming water and groped for the rope, but he only felt water. He’d missed. As his momentum began to carry him away from the rope, James realized he was going to fall. In a moment of desperation, he released his other hand from the sling and tried again to grasp the rope. The woman looked on in horror as his legs slid through the loop and he disappeared under the falls.
— 7 —
The Epoch Terminus
February 1886, England
Snowfall had left most of the streets impassable. Margaret huddled with James in front of the wall-sized fireplace, reading him a fairy tale in an attempt to lull him to sleep. James fit perfectly into the space between her crossed legs. Beneath them was a Persian rug. Margaret had a bearskin blanket draped over her shoulders to keep out the cold. She hated this house in the winter. The high ceilings and stone floors made it bitterly cold despite a fireplace in virtually every room.
As she turned the page of her Kleine Ausgabe version of the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales, the door whipped open letting in the ferocious winter wind. The baby, who was no baby at all being nearly three, quickly shifted from the precipice of sleep to the land of the awake and alert. Margaret let out a sigh as he jumped from her lap and ran toward the door.
A tall man, so thickly bundled one couldn’t tell if he was fat or thin, stepped into the room and closed the door. The man’s mittened hands slid back the hood to reveal black hair parted down the middle with numerous strands standing on end. It was obvious he hadn’t shaved in several days. His drawn, blackened eyes had the look of little sleep.
He smiled as the boy ran toward him. He managed to free his hands from the mittens just in time to catch the boy as he jumped into his arms. They both laughed and embraced. James Lochlan Stuart III had returned. His smile waned as he watched Margaret moving toward them. Her eyes bored into him yet her demeanor was cordial. James would have preferred an outburst to feigned kindness she was so good at emulating.
“So the traveler has returned,” she said curtly.
“Alas,” he replied, and smiled as he returned his attention to the child in his arms.
“You shaved your moustache,” she said.
Stuart reached up to his face, having forgotten that the moustache, common among noblemen, which had been there since before they had married was now gone.
“You look awful,” she said examining him.
Stuart stared back at his wife. The boy squeezed him tightly around his neck and showered him with kisses.
“And what news have you brought?” Margaret asked.
“Much. There is much to tell. Many things have changed. I promise I will reveal everything the moment James goes to bed.
It appeared as though Stuart intended to outlast his wife this evening because he and his son played well beyond the normal bedtime for the boy. Having not seen his father for several months, Margaret let her son break her normally militant schedule for
the first time she could remember.
“A boy needs his father,” she remembered being told, “no matter what kind of man he is.”
She nodded agreeably at the time but now wondered if he was doing the boy more harm than good. Over the past year he’d been home so little. More than once the boy asked if his father was ever coming back. She always said, “Of course, your father is just a very important and busy man.” In reality she wasn’t always sure.
Finally when she couldn’t stand waiting another moment, she walked into the drawing room to break up the reunion. The two were wrestling on the floor when she stepped into the entry holding a lantern. Both stopped dead and looked up at her.
“Not a word about it, I’ve allowed you to stay up well beyond your regular bed time. Off to bed with you. Shirley will tuck you in.”
Knowing there were times to hold one’s peace—and this was assuredly one of those times—neither protested. Father and son embraced once more, and the boy tottered off. His mother kissed him on his head as he passed. Stuart stood slowly, straightening his evening jacket.
Margaret took him in again. She couldn’t help but find this disheveled and slightly wild-looking version of her husband attractive. Quickly, she pushed the thought away and prepared herself for the task at hand.
“I’ve asked Nigel to bring tea,” Margaret said, settling into a large leather chair by the fireplace.
“Very good,” Stuart replied, rounding his desk and taking a seat. They sat in silence, listening to the clock tick away the seconds. After several minutes, Nigel entered the room with the tea tray. He set it on the desk, added the appropriate amount of sugar and cream to each cup, and headed for the door.
