The Veritas

by Wendy Saunders

  ‘But of course, Chér,’ Armand once again smiled widely.

  ‘You mean, you can give me back my hands?’

  ‘Better than new,’ he replied. With a dramatic swirl of his coat tails he pulled a chair from the table and indicated for Issac to take a seat.

  Issac eyed the strange man warily but none the less sank down into the offered velvet covered chair.

  ‘There,’ Armand took a seat opposite him, his fingers drumming on the table. The smoke in the crystal ball, seemingly aware of his presence, shifted to the side to the glass and began to butt up against it so violently that the ball wobbled on its grisly cradle. ‘Now, I must make you aware you are entering into a contract which both sides must adhere to. If not, the consequences would be most… dire.’

  ‘A contract?’ Issac repeated.

  ‘Oui,’ his mouth split once again into that painfully white grin. ‘A balance must be maintained Chér, an agreement of equal value, something for something.’

  ‘I don’t have much I can offer,’ Issac scowled in frustration.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Armand leaned back in his seat, one leg folded over the other, his foot resting on the opposite knee, revealing rather unfashionable white spats over shiny black shoes. His long spindly fingers tapped against his cheek as he pretended to think. ‘If of course you have nothing of value to trade, someone else may barter on your behalf.’

  Olivia sighed.

  ‘Alright Armand,’ she spoke up, ‘why don’t you just tell me what you want?’

  His gaze dipped to her chest for the briefest moment and she swore she could almost feel the compass warm against her skin beneath her clothes.

  ‘There is a rumor circulating that you are in possession of a very, very ancient artefact,’ his voice dropped low, ‘the Time’dhal.’

  ‘You mean the compass?’ she frowned. ‘Forget it. No offence, I want Issac to have his hands back, but there is nothing that you can offer that would make me hand over the compass. It’s my responsibility, not a toy you can play with.’

  ‘You misunderstand me Chére,’ he smiled slowly. ‘I do not wish to take possession of it, only use its power.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Armand’s eyes darkened until they were almost black. ‘I want you to take me to see my sister.’

  ‘But Cora only lives the other side of the city,’ Davis frowned in confusion. ‘Why would you need Olivia’s compass for that?’

  ‘He doesn’t mean Cora,’ Olivia stared back at him consideringly, ‘he means Clea.’

  ‘Who?’ Davis replied.

  ‘Clea Bachelier, his other sister. She died in Mercy over thirty-five years ago,’ she answered, her gaze still firmly fixed on Armand.

  ‘You are quite right, ma petite,’ he nodded. ‘You take me back in time to speak with my sister and I will give your friend back his hands.’

  Olivia stared at him, her lips pursing thoughtfully as she considered his offer.

  ‘Agreed,’ she finally answered.

  ‘You will have to sign a contract of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she muttered.

  Armand reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, cream colored scroll and unrolled it. Olivia watched as it unraveled along the length of the table, hit the floor and roll almost to her feet. When she looked up Armand was smiling innocently at her, holding a long, thin, ostrich feather quill which he wiggled enticingly.

  Rolling her eyes, she picked up the scroll and began to read. Armand’s brows rose slightly when he realized she intended to read through the entire contract. For several long moments there was nothing but silence in the room, with the exception of Armand’s restlessly tapping foot.

  The moments stretched out; the only thing that would have made the process even more tedious would have been the monotonous ticking of a clock.

  Another few moments passed, and Armand cleared his throat loudly. Olivia peered over the top of the scroll and he once again wiggled the quill suggestively. Ignoring him she went back to reading. When she finally finished, she laid the scroll out on the table and reached into her jacket pocket pulling out her own pen.

  ‘Nice try Armand,’ she clicked her pen deliberately ‘Shall we start from the beginning? This should read the party of the first part...’

  They haggled back and forth for what seemed like an eternity. Issac slumped back in his chair absently picking something out of his tooth with one of his hooks, while Davis resignedly propped himself up against the wall and played a game on his phone.

  ‘I hate to interrupt,’ Davis sighed, as he looked at his watch, ‘but Julien did warn us to get finished and get out of the city as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Relax, mon Chér,’ Armand crossed out another section and made an amendment, showing it to Olivia who nodded in agreement. ‘You are quite safe while you are within these walls.’

  ‘Olivia?’ Davis turned to his niece.

  ‘Sorry Davis but this is necessary. I’m a Guardian now,’ she looked up at him. ‘I know it doesn’t seem like I take it very seriously most of the time, but I’m carrying around a lot of extra power. Do you really want me signing a magically binding contract without knowing exactly what I’m agreeing to?’

  ‘Fine,’ he sighed, turning his attention back to his phone.

  A few moments later, Armand sat back and blew out a heavy breath. ‘You drive a hard bargain mon Chére. Are you now satisfied?’

  ‘Well it’s a really long assed way of basically saying, one trip in time equals one pair of hands, but yes, I think we can agree.’

  She leaned down and signed.

  ‘Thank God,’ Issac sat up in his chair.

  Armand watched her sign her name at the bottom of the messily corrected contract. When she finished and looked up, she found him holding out a long, thin, pearl tipped pin.

  ‘Sealed with blood,’ he told her.

  ‘Not a chance,’ she replied calmly.

  Issac sighed and rolled his eyes, once again slumping back in his chair.

  They argued back and forth for several long minutes before finally agreeing to Olivia binding the contract with her magic instead of her blood. Armand sat back, rolling up the scroll carefully as he watched her.

  ‘You haggle like a fishwife.’

  Olivia stood slowly, smiling at Armand as Davis pushed away from the shabby wall and moved to stand beside her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied in amusement.

  ‘I can’t help feeling a little like I’ve just been swindled somehow,’ Armand sulked.

  ‘Then you understand how your customers must feel,’ she replied. ‘Now, I believe you owe Issac a pair of hands, in full working order. Better than new I believe were your exact words.’

  ‘Indeed they were,’ he suddenly grinned, ‘and Chére, I am a man of my word.’

  Olivia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as Armand turned to Issac.

  ‘Chér if you don’t mind,’ Armand addressed him directly, ‘hands on the table.’

  Issac stared at him flatly.

  ‘Apologies,’ Armand replied with a smile, ‘appendages on the table, I need to see what I’m working with here.’

  Issac scowled but regardless, pulled up his sleeves and laid his forearms against the table. His hands had been cut off at the wrists but instead of wearing what Olivia had assumed were fairly crude prosthetics, the hooks themselves were pushed directly into his scarred and puckered flesh, and bound to the bone, allowing the scar tissue to grow over the join.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Armand wandered from one side of the table to the other, staring at Issac’s hooked stumps from every conceivable angle.

  Finally, as if he had come to some sort of decision, he snapped his fingers and turned. Darting across the room he started searching through bookcases, cupboards, shelves and drawers.

  ‘Where are you…’ he muttered to himself. ‘Aha!’

  He scooped something out of an old bureau and moved back to the table, laying out the objects on the table in fr
ont of Issac.

  Issac glanced down at them, then looked up at Armand his expression flat.

  ‘Are you fucking joking?’

  ‘Patience Chér,’ Armand cooed.

  Pulling up the cuffs of his jacket, he linked his long thin fingers, cracking them loudly before wiggling them. Pinching his fingers together as if he were going to make imaginary binoculars with his hands, he pulled his fingers apart and like a magician, a long, thin, shiny black cane appeared, with a skull as its pommel. He spun it expertly in one hand, twirling it like a baton. He leaned forward and rapped the pommel against the table, knocking three times.

  They all stared at the innocuous object on the table; a pair of white, gentleman’s evening gloves that looked as if they belonged in the 19th century. For a moment it seemed nothing was happening, and Olivia was beginning to feel as if they were being played somehow.

  Suddenly one of the gloves twitched. She blinked twice, convinced she was seeing things, but it twitched again, as the fingers on one of the gloves started to move. It flipped itself over and pushed itself upright. Standing on the fingers like legs it scurried over to its counterpart, drew one finger back and gave the other glove a swift kick. The glove twitched and jumped up.

  The two strangely animated gloves turned as if looking at the two hooks protruding from Issac’s wrists which still lay against the table. Issac’s eyes widened as the gloves hopped, skipped and scurried over to him.

  ‘I feel like I’ve just stepped inside a cartoon,’ Olivia whispered in disbelief as she stared.

  Davis stood with his mouth slightly open, just as transfixed by the weird sight.

  He opened and closed his mouth several times. ‘I got nothing…’ he finally admitted.

  They watched as the gloves circled Issac’s hooks, examining them, much as Armand had. One of the gloves grasped a hook and wiggled it. The other tapped a finger against its imaginary chin as if trying to come to some sort of decision. Suddenly they both flattened themselves against the table. Sliding under each of Issac’s wrists they wrapped themselves around tightly, binding themselves into tight knots.

  Issac gasped loudly at the pain and pressure as they tightened around his wrists. They began to break apart, splitting themselves until they were no longer gloves but thousands of tiny fibers. They grew and stretched, weaving and spinning themselves around the metal hooks, sewing themselves together like a 3d printer, creating exact replicas of human hands made of white fabric.

  Issac watched in fascination at the detail of his new hands. When the last fabric fingernail was in place, the white fabric began to change color and texture, until it had transformed completely into real flesh and nails, perfectly matching the color of Issac’s deep golden skin.

  He let out a deep breath, gasping in shock. He held up his new hands, so seamlessly integrated with his wrists no one would ever be able to tell they weren’t his original hands.

  He slowly flexed his fingers, first all at the same time, then one by one, testing each as if he didn’t quite believe he had hands again. His eyes were wide and glassy with emotion.

  Armand slid onto the table, seating himself comfortably beside the crystal ball. The smoke inside had now changed; long, thin and serpent-like, it undulated close to the glass, watching the scene with great interest.

  ‘Once again, hands on the table please,’ Armand requested.

  Issac looked up at Armand before placing his new hands on the table palms down and fingers splayed as he stared at them. He was so transfixed that he didn’t notice Armand’s hand slip inside his jacket as he withdrew a heavy hammer, which he proceeded to smash down with great force on the back of one of Issac’s hands.

  Issac let out a yelp of surprise, leaping to his feet and sending his chair toppling to the ground with a loud crash.

  Breathing heavily in shock, Issac lifted his hand. There was no damage, not so much as a scratch, a bruise or a red mark. It was then he realized there was also no pain.

  ‘Better than new,’ Armand grinned, ‘also better than the originals… you’re welcome.’

  ‘What?’ Issac frowned in confusion.

  ‘Definitely a cartoon,’ Davis muttered. ‘I almost expect an Acme anvil to drop on his head next.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Olivia replied quietly, ‘it would almost have to be a grand piano.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Issac turned on Armand. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What I could with what I had to work with,’ he spread his hands innocently. ‘There was no bone, only the hooks. They now make up the core, the skeleton of your hands. They’re hands version 2.0; look and feel like the real thing, but they’ll never rust and never break.’

  ‘They can never be damaged?’ he asked suspiciously; ‘they can never be removed?’

  ‘Non, however you may find they’re a little…’ Armand watched as Issac bent to lift the chair he’d tipped over.

  There was a loud splintering sound and when Issac straightened he found himself holding the broken back of the chair, while the seat still lay on the ground.

  ‘…stronger than you’re used to…’ Armand finished as he stared at the remains of his chair.

  ‘Uh… sorry,’ Issac handed him the chunk of wood.

  Armand shook his head, as he laid the wood down and jumped off the table.

  ‘Just don’t touch anything else while we’re gone,’ he told Issac as he approached Olivia. ‘Now Chére, I believe you still have your end of the bargain to uphold.’

  Olivia nodded, holding out her hand as he wrapped his slender fingers around hers.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting here,’ she told Davis. ‘Keep an eye on Issac, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself with those things.’

  Davis nodded and stood back as she pulled the compass from underneath her shirt. She turned it over in her hand, watching as the delicate little sundial once again began to spin.

  The dim candle scented room swirled and disappeared around them. She kept a tight grip on Armand’s hand as the world continued to spin and spin around them, then the dark dingy room gave way to bright daylight and the sudden fresh scent of trees. When everything around them finally slowed and stopped, they both found themselves standing on the soft mossy ground of her beloved woods.

  She turned and looked. Only a short distance away was a tall tree, decorated with brightly colored glass bottles which caught the bright sunlight and tinkled merrily in the gentle breeze. Beside it stood a small rough wooden cabin, a comforting curl of smoke rising from its chimney.

  Olivia repressed a shudder; she didn’t have fond memories of that cabin, seeing as Clea’s grandson, the former Chief Walcott had tortured her in there after kidnapping her.

  She turned to Armand to speak and noticed his attention was transfixed on something else. Following his gaze, she noticed a small woman standing on her stoop, wearing a faded floral day dress and an apron upon which she wiped her hands as she stared at them both.

  Armand walked silently forward, drawn toward the small woman. Gone was the cocky demeanor and the habitual smirk. His eyes were filled with too many emotions to name, his expression etched deeply with profound pain and loss, forcing Olivia to look away.

  ‘Armand,’ Clea greeted softly as they approached. Although her gaze briefly landed on Olivia, all her attention was fixed on her brother.

  Olivia hung back, trying to give them a little privacy.

  ‘Clea,’ his voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Clea Bachelier was a small woman, her once coal black hair now as gray as a storm laden sky. Although she didn’t have the same powerful and magnetic presence of Armand or Cora, there was still none the less a quiet and powerful intensity about her.

  He stood staring at her, until she finally opened her arms and he stepped into her embrace. Unable to intrude on such a naked and private moment, Olivia turned away staring out at the lake.

  Suddenly a strange and unsettling thought occurred to her, that as she wa
s standing on the shore of Mercy lake thirty-five years into the past, across the other side was her house. Only it wasn’t her house, it was her grandmother’s. Her grandmother was still alive, as was Aunt Evie, as was… her mother.

  Her mother was alive and young, barely even a teenager, before any of the tragedy and hate that would eventually destroy her family. She could see them, all she had to do was walk through the woods, around the lake and she would be surrounded by her family once again.

  The sudden wave of longing was so powerful she almost took an unconscious step forward.

  ‘It is not for you to interfere in their path,’ a warm maternal voice spoke from behind her.

  She turned and found Clea standing there, with her brother close by.

  ‘You don’t belong in this time Olivia,’ she told her in that same comforting lyrical tone.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘I do,’ Clea replied. ‘Just because I chose to forsake the path of my brother and sister for love, giving up the power does not mean I do not see things, that I do not know certain things.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’ Olivia asked impulsively.

  ‘Giving up the power for love?’ Clea asked in amusement. ‘You tell me. What would you sacrifice for the man you love?’

  ‘Anything,’ Olivia admitted slowly, ‘everything.’

  ‘Remember that in the coming days Olivia West,’ she reached out and touched her face, cupping her cheek with her dry fragile palm. ‘I’m sorry for the pain my blood caused you. He was not always so full of hate and anger; he is such a loving boy.’

  For a moment the change in tenses confused Olivia until she realized that in this moment in time, Thomas Walcott was only a boy.’

  ‘I cannot change Tommy’s future any more than you can change your mother’s,’ Clea dropped her hand.

  Olivia nodded slowly as Clea turned back to her brother, seeing the devastation on his face as he looked at her.

  ‘I’m sorry my choices caused you so much pain,’ she told him sadly.

  ‘I want to understand,’ Armand told her softly, ‘but I don’t. How could you sacrifice what you are for him? He made you change your name, he made you lie, he tried to take everything you were and make you into someone else.’