“Tell me, Patrick, how are you at lucid dreaming?”
“I’m not sure what it means.”
“Dreaming and being aware that you are.”
“Oh… that may have happened to me once or twice.”
“Good.” Chloe seemed pleased by my response. “Step one is seeing yourself in the dream, even if it’s just your hands or feet… Have you ever done that?”
“Not really… it’s more like seeing myself through someone else’s eyes.”
“That won’t do at all. You must learn to change your point of view… you must see through the dreamer’s eyes.”
“I could give it a try…”
“Good. Step two is taking control of one’s actions in the dream. Not always the easiest task.”
“Step three?” I asked.
“Taking control of your dream environment, though I doubt we’ll have time to master that skill.”
“It does sound hard.”
“Yes. But you need only remember that when one is dreaming, the mind is not necessarily constrained by the flow of normal time.”
***
The next morning I was feeling worse. The pain in my side had not abated at all and breathing was becoming a chore. Chloe set me a task. She didn’t seem quite herself though, and I felt a bit of mistrust from the onset of our conversation.
“I want you to return to yourself as a child.”
“What?”
“I’m sure you heard me.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” I replied, and with just a little more reflection, added, “I’m not sure I’d want to.”
“It’s an exercise, a test of your abilities.”
“You’re not Chloe, you’re Lilly,” I said.
“Am I wearing glasses?”
“No.”
“Don’t you find me alluring?”
“Yes…”
“Well then?”
I could have shut her down in a moment, instead I decided to see where this might lead. “I don’t know when I am exactly… so… I don’t know where a kid version of me is.”
“I can assist with that.”
“Can you now?” I asked the question, but it was rhetoric and sarcastic.
“Yes, you can soft jump to the past. Re-enter your awareness when you were a child, and return to me here when you’re finished.”
“Finished?”
“Finished being a child.”
“You mean grow up, live an entire life all over again?”
“Yes. I’ll wait for you.”
“It would take years.”
“It certainly will, or at least it will feel that way to you.”
“Not to you?”
“Probably not.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It might be fun… and as I’ve said, it’s a good test of your prowess.”
“It doesn’t seem fair to the kid-me.”
“How so?”
“I’d be destroying his concurrency. He’d never get the chance to grow up right.”
This Chloe laughed. “So you’d rather be kind to yourself, than explore your talents?”
“I guess.”
“It’s up to you… your choice.”
“How would I find this kid version of me? Is he in the past compared to now?”
“I believe there is a child version of you close at hand.”
There was something wrong with that statement. “I thought you said it wasn’t nineteen sixty-four?”
“Did I?”
“When is it really?”
“If you must know, it’s the eighteenth of April, seventeen forty-six.” This impostor Chloe paused to smile. “Doesn’t that mean something to you, Patrick?”
“Not really. Should it?”
“Well, it’s only two days after Blàr Chùil Lodair.”
“Which is?”
“The Battle of Culloden.”
***
The real Chloe came to me that evening, presumably; and she was wearing what could only be called a costume: a silk brocade bodice under a very long velvet gown. Her hair was up now, but twisted into an elaborate arrangement of braids.
“You must go back and enter this person’s mind, dominate his thoughts, bend him to your will, but you must also reach an accord. He knows the language, the local customs, the routine.”
“Who is this person you’re talking about?”
“The Magistrate.”
“Who?”
“He’s you of course— don’t you know?”
“No. I don’t remember being alive in the fifteenth century.”
“This has been our problem thus far.”
“What?”
“That you have no awareness of it. We’re intent on remedying the situation. Only in this way can you save Fynn.”
All this seemed utterly impossible at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I suspected it was true. My dreams of late being some of the best evidence. “Hmm, I might need a bit of a history lesson here.”
“Don’t you recall your dreams?”
“Partially, but my early Italian Renaissance is a little rusty.”
“Oh, but Patrick, you’ve lived this life already.”
“About that… are you sure?”
“Of course I am. It was probably one of your very first incarnations.”
“Really? Funny how I don’t remember anything about it.”
“It simply means you haven’t traveled back yet from the standpoint of your own present, but it is very likely that you will, since we already know this event has happened in the past.”
“Give me a second to think about that.”
“Take all the time you need…”
“Okay... What am I supposed to do?”
“You will have to do more than just observe. You will have to take charge, insinuate yourself into the autonomic functions of his brain.”
“What?” I asked with some alarm.
She laughed at my expression. “I only mean, take control of your own breathing. It is not something he’ll notice.”
“Like meditation?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “At all costs avoid his internal voice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most everyone has an ongoing monologue in their mind. It is at the seat of their consciousness— eh?”
“I guess.”
“Well, you may listen in of course, but do not converse with it. This will give your presence away.”
“Okay, so what do I do once I get there?”
“With a little luck, you’ll be returning before Fynn’s tribunal, so he won’t come to know any great suffering. It’s a tricky jump, I won’t lie to you,” Chloe said.
“Tricky how?”
“It may be difficult to arrive at exactly the right time. You may have to be patient. But the longer you wait, the more Fynn suffers.”
“Because he’s a prisoner, you mean?”
“Well, yes… it might be months or weeks…” Chloe hesitated. “We must hurry though. It does no good to arrive after he’s been executed.”
“Executed?” This gave me pause. “How do you know so much about this?”
She ignored my question. “Your task is simple: Wait for Tractus to show up before you in court, declare him innocent and set him free so that he may do as he pleases.”
“Will he recognize me… as the Magistrate?”
“Who can say?”
“How am I going to get back to exactly the right time?”
“That is your best question so far,” Chloe said and slowly led me deeper into the glen to a clearing. We were surrounded by hexagonal pillars that had been arranged in a sort of semi-circle. They varied in height from about three to ten feet. The whole place seemed to be alive with shadowy ghosts flitting to and fro.
“You see many ghosts, eh?” Chloe asked.
“I do.”
“Many people jump from here. It’s quite a busy place.”
&n
bsp; “Ha, I was expecting a stone circle…”
“A neolithic henge, you are saying?”
“I guess…”
“There are some nearby, and scattered all across the countryside, but we must hurry, the hour is getting late.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t understand why it matters— not if we’re jumping to the past.”
“Oh, Lilly hasn’t told you?”
“Told me what?”
“You’re dying, Patrick.”
“What?” I asked but was at a loss for further words.
“You’ve been severely injured.”
“I don’t feel great, I’ll admit to that… but I don’t think I’m dying.”
“Massive internal bleeding, hemorrhaging that we cannot stop.”
“I- I… how?”
“How is not important. But you’ll be dead in a few days, I’m sorry to say.”
I stared at Chloe, uncomprehending.
“If you don’t jump with me now, it will be the end of you. There is no doctor here.”
I simply stood there swaying. My right side had certainly been severely damaged, and I did feel a bit faint. “Alright then…” I whispered. “So what happens at this temple?” I managed to ask.
“Pardon?”
“Like at the Library… Does it constrain location or time, or what?”
“Oh, nothing like that, I’m afraid. The pillars are just a matter of convenience. Some are low for short jumps, and the tall ones will send you back centuries, or forward.”
“I don’t understand. No vortex?”
“Not here… it’s more like the Quarry in Sand City. And, I will need your help… We have to jump from up there.” She pointed to the highest pillar of stone.
“That’s a long way down…”
“Meaning?”
“A far jump.”
“Exactly so… we have far to travel… hundreds of years. Don’t you trust me?”
“I’d like to.”
“Don’t you want to rescue Fynn?”
“Of course.”
“Well, we have this to help,” Chloe said and reached behind a rock wall to hold up Mortimer’s jackal cane.
“Wait a second. Where did you get that?”
“You brought it with you from the Flatlands.”
“I did?” I paused to remember. “I thought I soft jumped here.”
“We haven’t been entirely honest with you, Patrick.”
“Uh-oh.” I didn’t like the sound of that at all. Seeing Mortimer’s cane also made me wonder about doppelgängers and leave-behinds. Had I left a version of myself in the Flatlands?
“Don’t you worry, I’ll make good use of it. I’ll finally rid myself of my sister and get you back to exactly the right present.”
I wasn’t quite sure if it was Lilly or Chloe who was speaking at this point.
“One of us will also travel back and be there to help, should anything go awry.”
“Which one?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me it does.”
“Well, we haven’t decided yet who shall go.”
“What, you’ll just flip a coin?”
“Something like that… or maybe we’ll both go. The important thing is you must make no contact if you see either of us.”
“Why?”
“It’s for your own safety.” Chloe placed a single tarot card on the ground: Justice.
“Not Judgement?” I asked.
“If you prefer…” she replied, and reached into a bag, drawing out a deck of cards.
“Well justice is better than judgement.” I noticed the large leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “What’s in there?”
“Oh, just a few things I might need for the journey.” Chloe lifted her gown and climbed to the top of the stone pillar. I stayed below. She directed me to move the tarot card to the right or left by a few inches, or closer or farther, and then adjusted the cane. The jackal eyes glowed red but Chloe had hers closed. She stood in silence.
Eventually, she urged me to join her. I climbed with great difficulty. The pain in my side felt more intense than before. Chloe helped the best she could. Once atop the pillar, there was hardly room enough for us both to stand. “Aim for that if you can,” she said and glanced down at the card. “We cannot jump together however,” Chloe warned. “You mustn’t take my hand…”
“The cane you mean?”
“Yes, you must soft jump, and I must hard jump.”
“You first, I’ll be right behind you…”
chapter twenty
meeting matters
It was just as easy as waking up from a dream. I arrived with a pretty good understanding of who I was, both in the future and now in this distant past, my new present. I could hear a voice in my head and it seemed to be speaking a language very close to Italian— at least I could understand every word.
I now lived in Modena, a town of a few thousand inhabitants, full of narrow streets, and brick-masoned buildings with red tile rooftops made of scalloped clay. This fortified city sat behind ancient walls in desperate need of repair, and on a small rise that overlooked a flat plain to the north and east.
I also remembered that I had to find Fynn, though I wasn’t exactly sure how. I figured I’d let things unfold and learn about this new present, despite plenty of initial questions— well, they were stupid really, like: Is there a bathroom? How do I wash? When do I eat? These were useless questions— my other self knew everything.
Dressing was a particular chore: a linen shirt, a fancy brocade vest… a doublet, white underpants with a belt, colorful wool leggings and a cod piece— also, a tunic to my thighs and a heavy wool robe with fur trim. The hat was the worst of it, some sort of elaborate chaperon which I was compelled to wear every day.
I soon learned a few things. My first name was Gianni, though no one seemed to use it. And I lived with my extended family in a small villa at the edge of town. Apparently I was a widower, my wife and two children having died some years ago in a terrible plague. Part of me still blamed a certain Doctor Pomodoro it seemed.
Since then I had devoted myself solely to my work as a magistrate; chosen for the tribunal not for my skill, but for the name of my family— an ancient, noble family, however impoverished. I could tell that much about myself at least, as pangs of guilt and anxiety often passed through this conscious mind.
I will admit I lost a good part of my modern self at first… indeed, it seemed to be slipping away a bit. Things like cars and trains and airplanes were becoming distant memories. I was more like an observer most of the time.
Nor was I completely alone. Chloe and Lilly were present as well, and now as wholly separate people, twin sisters. I caught glimpses of them here and there, together, talking to each other, or walking through dark halls sharing an oil lamp. By the manner of their dress, I knew them to be nobility— or my other half did, though he didn’t seem to recognize the two sisters. I couldn’t tell them apart either, and anytime I drew too near, they would vanish like smoke or scurry from sight. Certainly, they were avoiding me.
I left a lot of the daily routine to my other self, though calling him that did not seem at all correct. He was a completely different person. We might have looked the same physically, but it was difficult to be certain since I had not yet found a mirror. I’m not even sure this other me was aware of my presence. Maybe not in any direct way, and he made no attempt to have a conversation. I could most easily sense him through our emotions. I could tell when someone made him anxious, and felt his lust for a woman named Francesca… There was also a great sense of dread when he walked from his rooms to the Piazza Grande.
Almost every morning, I strolled up to the center of Modena by the ancient Duomo, to the Communal Palace, a building with an arched colonnade which served as a town hall and an ad hoc courtroom. It seemed to be under construction, or some sort of renovation. Oddly, this short journey filled my other half with tremendous anxiety. Certain pe
ople he passed along the narrow roads seemed to rile him up: fellow judges, merchants and clergy. In particular, his Eminence, the local Cardinal. I struggled with his name— it was unpronounceable. He was however the ultimate authority, having the ear of Duke Borso D’Este.
And strangest of all, I observed in my other self something I’d never experienced. He had an unshakable faith in god. This was a completely new feeling for me: his sense of the world, everything so ordered and clear, a hierarchy from the lowest to the highest, ending with the almighty.
The days however turned to weeks. After presiding over petty cases involving goats, bolts of cloth, sacks of salt, and arrogant sugar merchants, the historical novelty of my situation soon wore off. I was sick of hearing about poaching, trespassing and mezzadri. In fact, it became pretty tedious. I left such matters to my more experienced self… admittedly coasting a bit, submerging my modern mind into the background.
More than a month had passed and it was by pure chance that I stumbled upon Tractus Fynn. As magistrate, I was obliged to take a tour of the prison, inspect each cell and familiarize myself with the detenuti. I wondered why, and a fellow magistrate explained that the whole place was to be emptied in the coming days: “Il Duca wants the dungeons cleared to make room for new enemies, I suppose.”
On one of the deepest levels, two guards led me to a small cell and unfastened a great chain that was set against the door. He and another guard went in first with a torch. I heard them jabbering to each other though I could barely understand a word. I think I heard them say, “È morto.” I entered anyway and came upon the shadow of a man shackled to the wall— not by his arms as you might first expect, but by the ankles.
“Who is this prisoner?”
“No one is sure,” one of the guards replied.
“Well, what’s his name?”
“People call him Janek.”
“Janek? That’s hardly a name, certainly not a Christian name. Is he from a particular place? Does he have a family?”
The guard just shrugged, nor did I really expect an answer.
“What is this man’s crime?”
“I know not, my Lord.”
His hair was long and greasy, an unattended beard grew to his chest. His head was listing to the right and rolling ever so slightly. His eyes were unfocused, unseeing. Was he blind? Was there ever any light in the cell was perhaps the better question. I took the torch from the guard’s hand and held it a bit closer. The man groaned a bit, though it was more of a parched whisper. His head lolled back and forth. I knew at that moment, it was Tractus Fynn. He was half naked, draped in only rags that once may have been clothes. I put the torch against the wall and started barking orders.
Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3) Page 27
