Echoes of Worlds Past

by Nicholas Read

  Such a shame, that Eisman. Poor man.

  True enough, Brazilian Customs and Immigration didn’t care about magnetic dipoles, the consensus being that the raging Brit billionaire was in need of a little extra radiation shielding himself. He had been unceremoniously put on his private plane and told never to return. Let him reflect obsessively on his daughter elsewhere.

  Not long after his forced departure, a private Foundation had bought the property that had so captivated Eisman and razed it to the ground, replacing it with an undeveloped nature preserve where the only reflections that remained were to be seen in the pale waves that broke on the new park’s perfect beach.

  Pohnpei, Porto Velho, Osaka, Taupo—they were only a handful of the many locales where Eisman had pursued any hint of his daughter’s presence, alive or otherwise, his mania no longer confined to the route Ansett flight 888 had taken. Asked to account for such random searching, Eisman had sent tongues wagging anew when he cryptically gave one interviewer the sound bite: “The clouds; they move!” At considerable financial cost and still greater cost to his personal reputation, he had spent years crisscrossing the planet in search of any hint of Paige’s existence long past the point of reason.

  When hard facts had failed to supply any kind of succor he had doggedly turned to less conventional methods. Psychics, conspiracy nuts, UFOlogists—no matter how outré the source, no proposal escaped his attention. If tarot readers were good enough for American Presidents, they were acceptable to him.

  His pursuit was driven by love, the media correctly pointed out. The love of a widowed father for his only child. They praised him even as they mocked him as mad.

  Eisman knew he had done nothing earlier this evening to diffuse that allegation. It was all the fault of the reporters. Freelance scum, soulless paparazzi, they had waylaid him outside his London home. He had taken unbridled pleasure in beating the crap out of the both of them.

  But as he sped his sedan along the riverfront road he knew he could expect to see unvarnished images of himself in at least one of tomorrow’s tabloids.

  “Boffo Billionaire Bonkers?” one headline would scream. “Eisman Erupts!” would cry another. Below would be pictures of him clad in tux and tie flailing at the microphone-wielding journo while the photographer sidekick frantically fired off shot after shot. Since he was no longer hot news, the pictures would probably sell in the low thousands. Then the two paparazzi would sue him for assault.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Now he was late for the concert. Hills would be disappointed. It had taken his assistant more than a month to line up an invitation for his boss to attend the post-premiere reception.

  Eisman had progressively become persona non grata among London’s social set, for whom he had years ago generated so much wealth. His attendance at the after-party was intended to return him to the spotlight as an elegant and sane public figure, a patron of the arts and its charity de jour.

  Not that he really cared one whit about what people thought of him, but there were to be some people in that circle who might, if suitably inveigled, be able to aid him in his continuing search.

  How was he supposed to show himself to them now, with his expensive shoes scuffed and his formalwear torn and mottled with dirt?

  Even if an express drycleaner or suit retailer could be found at this hour on the A3 into London, he simply didn’t have the time to stop, already horrendously late for a social set that prized punctuality so much they had built the world’s tallest clock tower in the very center of their capital. He had brushed and wiped at his dress ensemble as best he could, but the figure he presented had plainly spent some time on the ground in less than salubrious circumstances. Despite his strenuous efforts to clean up, his appearance was sure to occasion sideways glances and murmured asides.

  Raef Eisman? Oh yes, poor fellow. One who lies down with dogs, you know.

  He gritted his teeth as his fingers tightened on the wheel of the Jaguar. It was his regular driver’s day off. He should have listened to Hills and hired a chauffeur. At the least, a driver could have run interference with the paparazzi and he would not now be speeding through the rain a little too fast.

  Either the wipers on the Jaguar needed replacing or this midsummer storm had begun raining much harder than the bureau had predicted. Water clung to the glass as the twin blades scooped back and forth like a pair of road workers with shovels, the one on the left throwing water onto the section of windshield just cleared by the other, an ongoing exercise in futility.

  At least there wasn’t much traffic on Upper Thames Street. He glanced down at the car’s clock. He was good and late, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Where was he? Had he gone past Southwark Bridge, or somehow detoured off onto the Blackfriars underpass? If so, he was going to have a devil of a time finding the access to New Bridge Street and working his way back to the Tate after crossing the river. Not so much of a problem during the day and in good weather, especially on a weekend. But in this kind of slosh, tired as he was from the day’s frustration and fighting, he found himself increasingly disoriented without any red taillights to follow.

  Sensible drivers had stayed home, or parked to wait out the unseasonal cloudburst. Already delayed, he did not have that option.

  Winding through a concrete canyon of one-way streets and restrictive median strips, he was sure London’s great river was somewhere off to his left: even in the increasingly difficult downpour he knew that much.

  Masked by what were now sheets of rain, a sign loomed just ahead. It had to mark the onramp for Southwark, or at least lead in the bridge’s general direction. There was no other reason for a left turn access to be here.

  Unless one was going to park just beside the small quay where boat tours plied the river.

  In the downpour and the dark he missed the signs. He also missed seeing two boats berthed for the evening immediately in the path of his silver hood ornament as the Jag mounted the curb. Fighting to brake and wrestle the car to a stop he suddenly felt a burning sensation in his pants. Startled, he spun the wheel with one hand and dug into his pocket with the other.

  From then on everything happened in slow motion.

  Given the speed at which he hit the end of the quay it was doubtful the car could have stopped in time on the slick concrete even had he realized the peril sooner.

  Hydroplaning, it skewed slightly sideways as he frantically spun the wheel. Then he was upside down, crashing through the top of one boat as wood and steel sprayed across the river.

  With the almighty thud that followed, the dash illumination flickered and went out, leaving him in total darkness.

  But not silence.

  Water gulped into the passenger compartment. It entered from multiple entry points: the underdash air vents, the engine compartment, the floor in front of the rear seat. All the while the car continued to move—downward.

  He was sinking into the River Thames.

  Fumbling in the darkness he popped his belt restraint and tried the door handle. It moved, but with the pressure of water against it the door wouldn’t open. There was probably an emergency tool somewhere but since he rarely drove himself he had no idea where it was stowed.

  As water began to rise around him, flooding the interior, he found and opened the glove compartment. It was full of papers, small unidentifiable objects, a flashlight . . .

  The casing was not large, but it was solid. Using both hands and putting his weight behind it he began slamming the butt end of the torch into the passenger side window. The water was up to his waist now and it was hard to get any leverage. So intent was he on trying to break out the glass that he had no time to wonder why Paige’s necklace, which he had kept on his person since her fateful flight, continued to burn in his pocket even though it was now as wet as the rest of him.

  He heard the glass crack.

  Dropping the light he raised his legs, slid back to brace himself, and kicked sharply at the
window with both feet. Though no longer young, he was in excellent condition.

  A second crack sounded.

  The cold water was up to his neck. Maddeningly, the safety glass refused to give. Taking a deep breath preparatory to kicking out again, he inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of river. Choking, coughing, water now blurring his vision, he fought to gather his strength for still another leg thrust.

  The passenger window exploded. As he turned his head away and inhaled a last desperate lungful of air, the Thames crashed inward. He threw up his arms to protect his face, both from the rush of water and the broken glass it contained. Within seconds he was completely submerged.

  Twisting his body he kicked toward the door, hoping that in the darkness he didn’t shred himself against the shards of window billowing around him. With his fingers he felt for the opening, attained it, and pulled himself forward.

  Though the Jaguar did not have large side windows he was able to pull his head and torso through. The air in his lungs would send him upward. Once that direction had been established he would start kicking.

  It would be all right, he told himself. The Thames wasn’t that deep and he had not hit bottom. He would make it. Meanwhile the chained amulet in his pocket unaccountably burned against his leg as the current swirled wood and glass around him.

  Kicking upward, weak but still aware, he thought he could see a light overhead and off to one side. From a bridge, maybe, or a boat, or even a streetlamp on the river-walk. It didn’t matter.

  The light gave him a direction, and a direction was a destination. Using his arms as well as his legs he swam frantically for the surface.

  Focused on the light, already exhausted, he didn’t see the looming underside of the boat overhead. He hit it hard, headfirst.

  Blinking from the concussion, his mind shutting down from lack of oxygen, he drifted in the water. The current swept a plate-sized piece of shattered glass across his failing line of sight.

  Though it was most surely a figment caused by stuttering neurons, he thought he saw a face mouthing silent words in the passing glass. An outline, an image. A comfort.

  “Paige?”

  The night and the river erupted. From being confronted by nothing more than cold wet darkness his eyes were abruptly filled with a thousand pinpricks of brilliant white light. They overwhelmed his senses completely, rushing in and along his optic nerves to expand explosively in his benumbed brain.

  Balanced on the knife-edge of unconsciousness, for a period of time measured in nanoseconds he perceived a million scenes and feelings from a thousand lifetimes crashing down on him.

  Then the light went out, and so did he.

  COLD. Cold and wet. Cold and wet and hungry. the first two he understood instinctively. The third did not sink in right away. He inhaled sharply, and choked. Half air and half water entered his lungs: a bad combination.

  Hacking up river, he turned slowly in the dark. Reflexively treading water, he turned slowly to survey his surroundings. Through the rain he could make out lights on opposing shores. Striking for the nearest he swam clumsily, weighed down by clothes that ballooned around him. At least the shoes fit. He considered kicking them off, then decided he might need them to climb out of the water. Since he had no idea where he was or how he had come to find himself in the middle of a slow-moving river, he had no way of knowing what the shoreline might be like.

  As he neared the dimly lit bank it struck him with sudden horror that he had no idea who he was, either.

  Name? He could not remember it, nor could he recall the names of anyone else. Or any places, or any times. A black fog of terror descended around him, threatening to smother all thinking, to drown him as completely as the river promised to do. Searching his mind he encountered nothing. Where memory ought to lie was only vacuum, nothingness, a sensation of thoughts paralyzed and standing still. He struggled, fought to remember. Something, anything. Where was he, other than floating in a river? At least he knew what a river was, he told himself as he fought back tears that would have been lost in the rain anyway. The realization gave him motivation. He did not know where he was going except that it had to be out of the water and rain. After that . . .

  Reaching the shore, he was confronted by a wall of brick and concrete that served as a bulwark on the river-bank. It proved too high to get a handhold. He let himself drift along the brine and mollusk encrusted barrier until he came to some stone steps that marched down into the water. Dragging himself out, he lay recovering his strength as multiple rivulets coursed away from his soggy bulk.

  Crawling up the old stone stairway brought him to a paved walkway. A long line of buildings of diverse age and architecture stretched off left and right, fronting the river. There was no sign of life. Why would there be, he thought to himself? What fool would be out in weather like this?

  The banners on buildings and neon letters in windows meant nothing to him; they were shapes his mind could not decipher. He found shelter beneath an awning and looked down at himself. A black jacket hung in reptilian folds around his slender chest. The matching pants, he noticed, had fallen to his ankles.

  Pulling them up, he was unable to secure them in place with the belt. There were not enough notches to accommodate his thin waist. Frustrated, he ended up tying the belt in a knot to keep his pants from falling down.

  Maybe there was something in his clothing that would help remind him of his identity, he thought suddenly. He began searching his person. But though they might once have contained useful material the waterlogged pockets were now empty. Whatever they had held had been lost to his struggle with the river. All that remained was something small and smooth in his right pocket that was too heavy to be easily swept away.

  Pulling it out, he studied it intently. The amulet of metal wheels within wheels glinted in the dark orange of cloud-reflected light, its short chain sliding from his pocket as he held it aloft. The markings around its rim made no more sense or evoked no more memory than the street signs of the rain-drenched city gave direction. But it was in his pocket, so it must be worth keeping. He shoved it back into the crease and returned his attention to the river.

  Did it never stop raining in this place, wherever it was? Was it raining harder upstream or down? Perhaps he could hike out of it.

  Walking got his muscles working and warmed him slightly. Trying to keep under cover as much as possible he started upriver, pieces of debris sliding downstream in the opposite direction. Though he encountered various objects on their way to a distant and unseen sea he was unable to identify any of them. His ignorance, his lack of recognition, was total.

  He passed more buildings, more signs. Why couldn’t he interpret their meaning? Was he unable to read? At his age, he ought to be able to do that. And what age, he inquired of himself, might that be?

  Pausing, he gazed into a shopfront window and studied his face intently and with satisfaction, though he wondered if his baldness indicated an illness. Staring back was a very wet boy clad in drooping, drenched, unaccountably oversized clothes.

  I’m about fourteen, he told himself. Maybe fifteen. So at least that was settled. But who am I?

  No doubt as time passed and he recovered his senses, memories would return. One thing that did return abruptly and with a vengeance was a gnawing hunger. Surviving in the river, swimming to shore, and hauling himself out had burned his energy reserves. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of . . . of . . . Or a bite of . . .

  He shook his head, sending droplets flying. He couldn’t even remember the names of food.

  He followed the walkway that paralleled the river because it was the only path he had. Beyond beckoned buildings clustered tightly together. Lights shone from within only a very few. It was late and people were absent from the office buildings or they were home sleeping. Sleep—he recognized that term too. It was something else he needed, but not as much as he needed food and his identity.

  He acquired the first by breaking into a small riverfront stall. M
ounted on wheels, the portable booth was too modest to have an alarm. As he tore open small packages of processed food and devoured their contents hungrily he tried, and failed, to interpret the names on the labels. The best he could do was distinguish them according to colors. There was white food, and green food, and best of all, brown food. The bottles that provided cool clean liquid to drink also came in colors. Again, he favored the brown.

  Stuffing packages into the pockets of his oversized black jacket he resumed his trek upriver, leaving the raided stall behind. As it turned out it was a good thing he had eaten well.

  Directly in front of him was a flashing, flickering conflict, a battle bizarre and incomprehensible raging in full fury before his eyes.

  A dozen or so individuals ranging from slightly younger than himself up to their late teens ranged around a writhing monstrosity. The peculiarly high-collared long black and brown coats they wore were adorned with a variety of metal tags and clips. Gaping at them, he was unable to identify the material. It looked like leather, it might have been plastic, but for all he knew it could have been woven wrought iron.

  The weapons they wielded were no more recognizable. None was larger than a typical pistol, though they were anything but typical in appearance. Handgrips and triggers he recognized somehow. Beyond those familiar fittings the various assemblages of dials, readouts, cones and antennae might as well have been garnered piecemeal from some obscure electronics clearance.

  Several of the weapons fired explosive shells or tent-sized nets of razor wire. Others laid down streams of focused flame or beams of coherent light. One appeared to do nothing more than distort the air in front of its muzzle.

  Every bit of this exotic ordnance was being brought to bear on a two-story tall mass of writhing tentacular gelatin. Within the semi-transparent shell of quivering protoplasm he could discern several eyes and at least one, possibly two fanged maws. All drifted about like berries in aspic, occasionally rising near the surface, sometimes retreating for safety deeper into the molded slime of which they were a part.