The Map of Moments

by Christopher Golden

  Max stared, trapped in a moment of disbelief.

  In the distance, deep in the belly of the storm, thunder rumbled.

  The hidden man leapt up and forward, wading into the marsh. Max moved at almost precisely the same moment. In unison they cried out, Max in English and the other man in French, as they slogged through the water.

  The Indians on the opposite edge of the marsh looked up, all of them staring at the Frenchman. None of them seemed even to notice Max. The baby's mother and the man who had drowned her child did not look up at all, staring at the dark surface of the water where the baby had gone under moments before.

  “Save him! You can still save him!” Max shouted, waist deep in the water now.

  The night birds screamed. He looked up just as the first of them dove into the water, wings folded back against its sides. Three others darted into the marsh. Max faltered, staring in wonder, as others skirted the top of the water, whipping through tall grass and then rising again, wings beating the air.

  Something broke the surface, wings shedding droplets of water. Then more, until four birds emerged, heads dipped low, talons thrust out below them as they lifted the baby from the water by its sodden blanket.

  The shirtless man smiled, tilted his head back, and let the rain fall on his face. He raised his arms in silent thanks.

  The birds carried the baby aloft. Max could hear it coughing, spitting up water, as they began to descend with their burden again, lowering the child into its mother's outstretched arms. The moment she took hold of the baby, the birds flapped away, vanishing over the treetops. The child began to cry again in great hitching sobs.

  Max wiped rain from his eyes and stared. He took a step back. What he'd just seen simply wasn't possible. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, and he glanced over at the Frenchman, whose mouth hung open in astonishment that mirrored Max's own.

  The Frenchman lifted his hands, palms up. It took Max a moment to realize why: the rain had begun to taper off. As the shirtless Indian called out to the thunderclouds, a dim growl came from the sky, and that was all that remained of the storm. The clouds had thinned. Even as Max gazed upward, he saw clear spots open above. Starlight glittered through those rents in the storm.

  The rain drizzled to a stop.

  One by one, the Indians returned to their canoes. As they did so, each touched the squalling infant on the crown of its head. The man who had nearly drowned the child helped its mother into the last canoe. They began to paddle away. Several of them glanced at the Frenchman, aware of his presence but unwilling to acknowledge him. The Frenchman raised a hand and made a noise, as though he wanted to call out to them, to ask what it was he had just witnessed, but he stopped himself.

  Perhaps he wasn't sure if he wanted the answer.

  None of them looked at Max.

  He waded after them. On his third step, the depth of the marsh changed so abruptly that he stumbled forward, catching himself just before he would have submerged completely. Water enveloped him to just below his shoulders.

  Cursing, he searched with his feet and found a shallower spot, pulling himself out so that he was only waist deep again. Even as he did, a wave of nausea came over him. He swayed on his feet, blinking, and his throat felt suddenly parched.

  He squinted against the light.

  To the west, through the trees, he could see the light of the setting sun. For a second, he smelled lilacs.

  “What the hell is this?”

  He stood in the middle of the narrow river that surrounded Scout Island. A dozen feet away, the water flowed under the little bridge he'd crossed. The bike he'd taken from beside Cooper's Bar stood propped against the stonework.

  Max raised his hands to his hair and found it dry.

  There had been no rain. No marsh. No Indians, no baby, no Frenchman, no birds. Shaking, afraid his mind had slipped a gear, he forced his eyes closed, open, closed, and open again. The world around him now was solid, but it had felt solid enough before, too. A hundred thoughts filled his head, stories of alien abduction and of fairy mounds, but he discarded them all. Those were just stories.

  Blinking, he studied the branches of the old cypress and oak trees around him. The hurricane had damaged them enough that even if some of them were the same trees, he wouldn't have been able to tell.

  The same trees? What did that even mean? He'd hallucinated, that was all. Drugs were the only answer. Crazy Ray had given him something in that little stone bottle, and he'd been drunk or stupid enough to swallow it.

  Furious with himself, still hazy with alcohol but at least lucid, he slogged to the riverbank and climbed out. Bullshit, he thought. Hallucinations. Can't be anything else. But Max had always been a child of logic, and as strange as it had been, he'd never heard of hallucinations like the ones he'd just had; a single, richly detailed scene peopled with characters. A single moment.

  The Map of Moments, Ray had called it.

  He patted his pockets. His pants were soaked through and the shoes he'd worn to the funeral were ruined. Somewhere he'd lost his jacket. He touched the bulge of his wallet, but money would dry out. Then he felt the outline of his cell phone and his gut turned to stone. Taking the phone out, he tried to turn it on. A strange, unpleasant clicking noise came from inside the plastic, and then nothing. He tried it several more times.

  “Fuck!”

  A bird fluttered from a nearby tree and took off across the darkening sky, roused by Max's curse.

  He cocked his arm to throw the phone into the water, then paused. Maybe if he swapped out the battery, he could get the phone dried out and working again. He slid it back into his pocket, thinking about what he would do when he found Ray. The man had a lot to make up for, and a lot of explaining to do.

  Max located the map in his front right pocket. He stood at the foot of the bridge and unfolded it carefully, not wanting to tear the wet paper, mostly just trying to figure out the quickest way back to the French Quarter. He figured the ink would have run badly and become illegible, but it was worse than that: the First Moment had vanished altogether.

  But a Second Moment had appeared. He was certain this new blocked area had not been on the map before, but now, as though drawn in invisible ink and made to appear by New Orleans’ still-dirty waters, here it was.

  The Second Moment:

  The Pere's Kyrie

  November 2, 1769

  For several seconds Max stared at this new marking, but the last of the day's light was fading, and he could not understand the words. Or perhaps he didn't want to. With the setting of the sun, the November night had become cool, and he was soaked from the waist down.

  Max shivered as he folded the map, glancing nervously at the bridge and across the narrow river at Scout Island beyond, picturing in his mind the almost primordial landscape he'd hallucinated. The wildness of the land in a bygone age. Watching the trees for birds, he slid the map into his back pocket, telling himself he didn't care if the dampness ruined it, even though he didn't believe that would happen. Not until it had served its purpose.

  He retrieved the bike and walked it to the path before climbing on. His stomach ached and for a moment he feared another hallucination, or whatever that had been. Another drug-induced vision. Then his stomach grumbled, and he remembered that he'd eaten almost nothing all day.

  Uncomfortable, pants stiff and heavy with water, leather shoes tightening on his feet, he pedaled out of City Park, all concerns for his own safety forgotten. Except that, in the back of his mind, he kept a rough image of the location of that Second Moment, and he made sure to go nowhere near.

  Max abandoned the bike three blocks from the hotel. His thighs were painfully chafed and he tried his best not to walk like John Wayne. The exercise had burned off enough alcohol that he was practically sober by now, and starving. Questions crowded his mind but he forced them away. It had been a day for impossibilities, but he couldn't think about them until he had a hot shower, a hot meal, and dry clothes.

>   Walking through the lobby, he tried to pretend there was nothing at all strange about his appearance. He'd kicked a lot of dried mud from his shoes, but they were still filthy, as were the cuffs of his pants. His shirt was untucked, but that couldn't hide the fact that his pants were still wet. He probably stank of muck and whiskey. But he kept his gaze straight ahead, unwilling to acknowledge the stares he knew he must be receiving from the handful of staff and guests in the hotel.

  To his relief, Max made it to his room without encountering anyone, and was surprised to find that his key card still worked, despite the soaking it had endured.

  Once inside the room he leaned against the door and let out a long breath, grateful for the sanctuary, and wishing that he would never have to go back out again. He emptied his pockets of wallet, keys, change, phone, and map, and then stripped. He dumped his shoes and pants into a plastic bag he found in the closet. It was intended for guests who wanted to send clothes out to be laundered, but Max would simply throw them away. He was tempted to toss his shirt, socks, and underwear into the bag as well, but for some reason, that seemed excessive.

  He laughed, and even to his own ears it was an uncomfortable sound.

  The room service menu was limited to basics and a few more elegant specials, but the last thing Max wanted was haute cuisine. He ordered a bowl of gumbo and a hamburger with French fries, then opened the complimentary bottle of water on the bureau. A drink had seemed like such a good idea this morning, during Gabrielle's graveside service. Now the thought of alcohol made him queasy. He tipped the bottle back and drank, and that spring water was the best thing he had ever tasted.

  Max took a hot shower, scrubbing himself clean of the day's strangeness. He only wished he could wash away his grief and confusion. Afterward, he put on clean underwear, cotton sweatpants, and a T-shirt, and waited for his food to arrive. They had said twenty minutes, but room service estimates were invariably wrong.

  His eyes were drawn to the bureau, where the map lay folded beside his wallet and useless cell phone. It had to still be wet. He glanced toward the door, trying to will his food to come, but when no knock followed he went to the bureau and stared down at the map.

  After a moment he picked it up and unfolded it. It would dry better if he left it open; that was what he told himself. But what he really wanted was to confirm that those words of the First Moment were gone. He opened the map and stared at City Park, and sure enough, the First Moment was no longer there.

  The next one was even clearer than before.

  The Second Moment:

  The Pere's Kyrie

  November 2, 1769

  “The Pere's Kyrie,” he read aloud. Though he'd never been religious, he knew a Kyrie was a kind of prayer meant to be sung. And in French, “Pere” meant father. But whose father? The questions ran deeper than that. Ray had talked about following the map, gathering magic—-yeah, he said magic—like static, opening a window into the past so Max could get a message to Gabrielle, maybe even talk to her. No matter how much Jack Daniel's he'd drunk, and no matter what the old guy had given him in that little stone bottle, that part of the conversation remained clear in his memory. Follow the map, and then find some “conjure-man” named Matrisse.

  He'd never heard such bullshit in his life.

  That was what he ought to be thinking, and he knew it. But the map had dried now, and though it looked like a common tourist map of New Orleans, it felt like old parchment, dry and rough in texture. It was as if the map he held and the one he was looking at were two entirely different things.

  Add in his hallucination in City Park, and logic brought him to answers he had difficulty allowing into his mind. Two plus two equaled four, always and forever. Dumb-ass. After Lakeview, you should've come straight back here. But he'd run across assholes with guns …and then he'd used the map.

  Should've known better.

  But how could he have known better? He hadn't believed a word crazy Ray had said.

  “That's a lie,” he whispered to himself. He threw the map on the bureau. Because he had been drunk enough and full of enough sadness that he had believed, just a little. Hell, he'd wanted to believe.

  “Yeah, two plus two equals four,” he said aloud. Which translated in his mind to another equation. If what he'd seen in the park connected to real events, and if the area had been marsh back then, what he'd seen could have been real, and not just some drug-fueled vision.

  He'd spent half a year as a history professor at Tulane, but had only basic knowledge of local history. Still, Max knew who could give him answers. What he had to decide was whether or not he wanted them.

  A heavy knock came at the door. “Room service.”

  “Finally.” He'd been about ready to break into the mini-bar and pay eight dollars for a tiny package of Oreos.

  Only after he had gotten his food, tipped the guy, then looked for the remote control to turn on the television did he finally notice the blinking red light on his phone. Someone had called while he had been showering, and left a message. He hesitated, thinking that it might be his sister calling to check on him, either to see if he was all right or to give him crap for having come down here in the first place. Neither was a conversation he felt like having, but it couldn't hurt to listen to the message.

  As it turned out, the message wasn't from his sister.

  “Max, it's Corinne. You went off with Ray and never turned up back at your hotel. I came by and had a drink in the bar, called up to the room a couple of times. Anyway, I'm home now if you want to call. I figure you've got another day or so down here, and I thought we could get breakfast at Poppy's tomorrow. If you're up for it, I mean. If it wouldn't be weird or morbid or something. Anyway, call me if you want to. If not …I'm glad you came down. Thanks for not making me do that alone.”

  Breakfast at Poppy's. Why was it all the good memories hurt so much?

  He ate with the TV on, but Max barely registered the zoetrope shadows dancing across the screen. He spent the time thinking about tomorrow's breakfast, wondering what he should say. By New Orleans standards, his gumbo tasted bland, but the burger was just what he wanted. When he'd finished, he set aside the tray and picked up the phone.

  Corinne answered on the second ring.

  “Poppy's survived Katrina?”

  “Max,” she said. “Yeah, it's still there. A little worse for the wear, but Poppy's stubborn, and she loves this city so much she wouldn't know how to live anywhere else.”

  “Nine o'clock all right?”

  “I'll see you then.”

  Poppy's sat on the corner of Dauphine Street and Iberville, still in the Quarter but off the typical tourist track. Its exterior had always reminded Max of a private club in some European city, tall windows gleaming in the morning sunlight, but with the blinds drawn. Casual passersby would presume the place closed. Its name was stenciled on the windows and painted on tiles above the door, but no operating hours were posted. There wasn't even a menu on display to those who might be walking past.

  The message couldn't have been clearer: if we don't know you, we don't want you here.

  Yet in Max's experience, that wasn't the case at all. In truth, the diminutive woman from whom the restaurant gained its name simply felt that word of mouth had made her little place popular enough already, and that soliciting casual diners would only make Poppy's less hospitable for those who truly appreciated what she had to offer.

  “She's not in it for the glory,” Gabrielle had once told Max. “She's in it for the food.”

  When Max walked in that morning, he could not help but smile. The restaurant brought back painful memories, but they were wonderful memories as well. He had never expected to set foot on Poppy's tile floors again, and despite all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, it felt like a gift. The walls were painted ivory, with olive-green trim, and the floors were inlaid Italian marble. The front of the restaurant was a narrow corridor with a bar on the left and a single row of small tables to
the right. He walked through to the hostess at the end of the bar.

  The woman looked up, and Max recognized Poppy herself. Her auburn hair had been brighter red the last time he'd seen her, and shorter, and there were lines around her eyes that he didn't remember. But charm still radiated off her.

  “Mornin’, darlin’,” she said. “One for breakfast?”

  “Actually, I'm meeting someone.” He smiled at her. The woman stood about five-foot-nothing, but had a formidable air about her.

  She gave him a bemused look. “I know you, don't I?”

  “You have a good memory. I used to come in here sometimes with Gabrielle?”

  Poppy's eyes brightened. “Oh, Gaby! Yeah. Haven't seen her for…” She trailed off when she recognized the expression on Max's face. He guessed she'd seen that same look many times recently. “She's gone, huh? The Bitch get her?”

  Max almost corrected her, but then realized that to Poppy—and other New Orleaneans—“the Bitch” was Katrina.

  “Yeah. We buried her yesterday.”

  “I'm sorry. She shone bright, that one. You remember her, now! Nobody we lost ought to be forgotten.”

  “She won't be,” Max said, looking down at his feet, and the brief silence quickly grew uncomfortable.

  “You want to sit, or wait up front?” Poppy asked.

  He glanced at the door, but saw no sign of Corinne. “I'll sit, thanks.”

  Poppy led him into the main dining room, which was as narrow as the front but had room for a row of tables against either side, just eight in all. There were three free, and she led him to one about halfway down and slid two menus onto the table.

  “Get you some coffee to start?”

  “Café au lait, please.”

  “Coming right up, honey. And I'm sorry, again, about Gaby.”

  Max nodded and watched her go. She came back with his coffee within minutes, trailed by a doughy waiter with a goatee, who introduced himself as James. He asked if Max wanted anything else while he waited, then retreated to the kitchen.

  Corinne arrived a few minutes later. He'd sat himself so that he'd be positioned to see the front of the place, and the moment she came through the door he knew he wasn't going to tell her anything about the previous day. What would he say? The map felt crisp and stiff in his back pocket, but even if he showed it to her, what would she see? A tourist map that someone had scribbled on?