The front door—the real front door—creaked open downstairs; her mother was home early.
“Sweetie, I came to check up on you. How are you feeling?” The words sounded sincere, but they came from the living room, where the television had just switched on.
Caroline found herself running downstairs without any idea of what she intended.
* * *
“Why did Dad leave?”
Her mother looked away from the news, the first time her gaze had shifted in twenty minutes. “I wondered why you sat down here with me for so long with that ‘I-have-a-question look’ burning up your face.”
Caroline’s stare remained steady.
“And Heaven knows why you’ve been digging up all this ancient history…But as you already know, it was a matter of fidelity. More specifically, your father’s lack of it.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t the other way around?”
The sudden smack of mother’s hand on daughter’s cheek reverberated through the room, coinciding exactly with CNN’s cut to commercial so that, for a split second, there was nothing but the legacy of family violence echoing through the air.
“I…” Her mother took another breath, the scar on her temple flashed crimson, and the justifications came tumbling out. “How dare you make such insinuations, you ungrateful little bitch! Damn you…DAMN you! My daughter! My own daughter—”
“And Uncle Cliff’s?”
Her mother’s hand pulled up short this time…just. “Caroline, so help me, I won’t lose another child.”
Caroline scrambled off the couch and to the base of the staircase, whirling around as her foot touched the first step. The handprint on her cheek was almost as angry a red as her mother’s scar. “Ethan found out, didn’t he? And so did Dad, and that’s why they left, because you’re a whore, a lying fucking whore, and they couldn’t stand it—” A sharp sob cut her off, and she struggled to suppress the others welling up behind it.
Her mother was looking at her feet now, hands dangling at her side. “Your father strayed first…”
“Liar!” The accusation burst out of Caroline atop a wave of weeping; she was nearly blind with tears by the time she stumbled back to her room.
* * *
“I saw you.” Her brother’s tiny arm inched up until it protruded at an accusing angle.
“Saw me? Saw me where, Ethan?”
“I saw you.” His voice wavered briefly as his miniscule eyes began to glisten.
“Ethan, honey, what’s the matter?” Setting down an absent paper, her mother—her little, lying mother—stood and walked forwards.
“Stay away from me!” Ethan shouted, recoiling and whipping his arm back to hug himself tight.
“Ethan—”
“I saw you with him, you slut!”
Her mother sagged backwards a step before regaining her balance. She opened her mouth to voice a denial, but the words clogged and nothing came out.
Ethan was crying now. “Dad knew, didn’t he?…That’s why he left…why he’s gone.”
“Ethan…”
“Whose son am I?” His voice was suddenly steady, soft yet hard.
Her mother was struck mute again.
“Whose son am I!” Ethan screamed and hurled the watch at her mother, flinging it out of his pocket and into the air in one powerful motion. The tiny clock struck her mother in the forehead before bouncing to the floor.
“Caroline—” a louder, larger voice started and then stopped behind her.
“Whose son am I!” Ethan shrieked again into the silence.
Her little mother put a hand to her dripping brow and said nothing. As Ethan turned away, the scene reset, the figures went back to their starting positions, and the infinitesimal spots of blood that had spattered the box’s base vanished.
Slowly, Caroline turned to look at the doorway, where her real-life mother stood petrified in a giant imitation of her figurine’s pose from a moment earlier. Locking eyes with her mother, Caroline only had to stare for a few moments before she forced down her elder’s gaze. “I saw you.”
Her mother’s head hung, her body drooped, and she slumped to the floor.
Caroline’s own sobs returned, and she nearly collapsed next to her broken parent before steadying herself against her desk. Fumbling for the watch, she hefted it in one hand, looked back at her mother…and couldn’t find the strength.
Instead, Caroline grabbed the closest pen and staggered towards the door. Her mother seemed not to notice the timepiece as her daughter set it in her lap, seemed incapable of anything but quivering where she lay. Caroline said a silent goodbye, stood, and lowered Ethan’s low-limb high mark by four inches, which, as far as she could tell, finally put the threshold even with the top of her head.
And then she was in the hallway, flinging away the pen as she ran upstairs for one last embrace in Sire’s Seat.
REVISIONS
The fact that you’re reading this means you’re a) literate,
What…
and b) dead. Congratulations. You’ve met both preconditions.
…is going on?
The pain from your final injuries will subside as soon as they finish healing.
That car…It came so fast.
And if you’re starting to panic—wondering where, what, and who you are—don’t: your mentor is on his or her way, answers in hand.
These words…and nothing beyond them.
But first things first: jump number one. Don’t worry. It’ll be quick, and more or less painless.
Why can’t I see anything else?…Ripping…I’m ripping…Twisting…Fading.
Enjoy.
* * *
Hundreds of people danced and cheered atop a massive staircase stretching at least a football field in length. Swarms of laughing, yelling, rejoicing, strangers…He squeezed his eyes shut against the visual overload and clapped his hands to his ears to muffle the deluge of noise.
It didn’t help: no matter how fervently he prayed, his impossible new surroundings refused to vanish.
Reluctantly, he let the sights and sounds filter back in…His clothes were the same as those worn by the hordes around him. And their words were…still incomprehensible, but they sounded Eastern European. Russian, maybe, only—
A slap on his back preceded the appearance of a mustached, middle-aged man’s face in front of his own. Furry lips emitted something rapid and enthusiastic.
He nodded numbly, looked at his feet…and noticed with a start that he was wearing boots. Clumsy, black, enormous boots. His feet felt bigger. He felt bigger. Kneeling, he began to free his right foot to disprove this madness. He was a size ten, should still be a size ten—
Shouts of a different tone tore through the air. Authoritative shouts. Commanding shouts. The masses turned as one, and a loud cracking noise rang out, ricocheting off the stepped acoustics. Smoke followed, begat more thunder, and the masses turned back and ran.
1905 A.D.: Odessa, Ukraine.
Pushing, stumbling, scrambling men and women of all shapes and sizes streamed down around him. He left his laces untied and stood, bewildered by the date and place still scrolling through his head. Someone knocked him to the next level. He landed head first, his scalp splitting on impact. Rough hands yanked him to his feet, and the mustached man bellowed something harsh in his ear.
“…you fool! The Potemkin…Czar…attacking Odessa! Run!”
“What…”
“Are you deaf, comrade? Run, dammit! Run!”
“…the Hell is happening?”
The mustached man swung away and took three stairs in a stride, then four. Then collapsed head first in an explosion of red mist.
Czarist forces react to a series of strikes and demonstrations across Russia.
Ignoring the new set of words hanging in front of his eyes, he swiveled towards the now rolling gunfire as the mustached man’s feet slid from view. He started to scream his confusion at the callous soldiers above, voice his—
&
nbsp; Hot, searing pain preempted him. He fell, his head landing only a few feet from where it had smashed seconds earlier.
The massacre on the Odessa steps and subsequent looting in the city’s streets cost over 6,000 lives.
Darkness returned.
* * *
Log (of what you’ve done and why), first entry:
I’m…alive? Dead?…What you’ve done and why?…These clothes…The same as on the steps…And this stain…It’s so red…Still hurts…
Those words, the ones that came in the middle of all that chaos. Did I just dream them, or was that really meant to be the Odessa Steps? But the massacre never actually happened; Eisenstein made it up to dramatize his movie…
Is this a dream? Why can’t I see anything…except myself? My hand before my eyes…and nothing beyond it—
The stain is gone. So is the pain. A light? A figure…
* * *
A thin, reedy voice trills something unintelligible.
“What?” He squints at the coalescing form, one hand still gripping his chest.
“…your name, sonny…If you concentrate…understand any language.” The figure flashes into focus, becoming an old man with a faint smile and a knowing twinkle. His snowy beard strikes a sharp contrast with the void around him, an incongruity outdone only by his neon-blue tuxedo.
“Blake.”
“And I’m Galen. Well done, and have a seat. You’ll need it.”
Blake whirls around as he feels a hard edge pressing against the back of his thigh. He nearly trips over the wooden stool, recovers his balance, regards the seat for several moments, and sits cautiously. Twisting back, he finds the old man reclining in a leather easy chair and lifting a glass from a nearby end table.
“Bourbon? I find something stiff helps to sort out a bit of order from the chaos.”
Blake drops his hand from his (now fully healed) chest and shakes his head uncertainly.
Shrugging, Galen downs the cup himself with a grimace. “Hmmm, but memory’s never quite as good as the real thing…Humor me by answering a question, sonny, and then I’ll start dealing with yours. I know it’s not particularly fair, but I’m quite literally dying of curiosity.”
His brow wrinkling, Blake’s hands return to his head and chest to reaffirm their wholeness.
“Mmmm, my apologies for the poor choice of words. Rather inconsiderate.” Galen makes a clucking noise as he pours himself another glass. “But you can put your hands down. You’re as good as new. Mint condition, maybe better.”
Blake’s gaze wanders around the blackness as his hands fall slowly back to his sides. “Where…What is this place?”
Rolling his eyes, Galen snaps his fingers and the empty glass and bottle wink out of sight. “All in good time, Blake. All in good time. Speaking of which, we really don’t have much left. Things happen fast at the beginning. Which means you really need to get a hold of yourself and start the ball rolling.”
Blake’s hands raise out of his lap again, this time to explore the stool beneath him and test its substance.
“Blake!” Galen’s voice is hard enough to make Blake’s roving hands flinch and recoil. “Where—were—you?”
The image of a mustached man shouting Russian flits across Blake’s thoughts. “Odessa…1905. But like the movie…There was a massacre on the steps.” His eyes clear somewhat.
“Good, good, sonny. And interesting…Someone after you must have modified things to fit Sergei’s vision. A cinema buff, no doubt…” Galen sits up in the easy chair, hunching over his beard. “The precursor to the Russian Revolution on jump one, though. Hmmm…But you certainly seem to know your history. That bodes well.”
His eyes narrowing sharply, Blake leans forward to match the old man’s pose, bringing their noses within inches. “What the fuck is going on?”
Galen snorts and leans back into a reclining position. “You really should have had some of the bourbon. A must for our next session. Now give me a moment, if you would, while I try and remember how my mentor handled this. They don’t give you much warning for this, you know. Just a sudden alert and an order to be at such and such time with such and such—
Blake leaps off the stool, sending it careening into the darkness as he spreads his arms wide. “Dammit, old man, stop dancing around the question and tell me what the fuck is happening to me!”
“Seems to me, sonny, that if fair’s fair, you have to ask me at least one more time before I respond. And…Well, now you’re starting to skip out on me.” Galen puts his hands behind his head in resignation. “Never good to make a jump riled up. Bad for the digestion, or at least it would be. Try and calm yourself before you go. Can you still hear me? Remember your history, Blake!”
The void seems to collapse in upon Blake, becoming a deeper nothing. He feels himself distorting, sputtering, imploding. A light flickers and fades.
“Remember—your—history!”
Emptiness.
* * *
Confusion is normal. You don’t need to embrace it at this point (though you will later), but at least try and accept it for now.
Why can’t I feel anything?
At this juncture you should be second-jump-in-transit. This one will be a little more substantial. Observe what you can, see what you can do.
Only these damn words…nothing else.
But remember, you’re still acting on a trial basis: try not to make too much of a mess.
Not again…Shit that hurts.
Have fun.
* * *
“…the Senate…in the forum…another list posted…How much longer will this madness be allowed to continue?”
“Sounds like you think someone could actually change things if they had the mind to. But it won’t end until the old man gives out on his own; there’s no one left who has the nerve…Need another Marius.”
Blake shook his head gingerly, trying to make sense of this latest set of sounds and smells. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself staring at cobblestones so worn they were effectively a single sheet of brick.
“Another Gaius Marius? Are you serious? Have you forgotten the bloodbath after he got his cursed seventh consulship? That was worse than this lunacy, and that’s saying something!”
“Marius of twenty years ago, then. The memory the people so love: our beloved general who crushed the Germans.”
Tunic hems swished by Blake on all sides as sandaled feet picked their way indifferently around his hunched form.
“See now, I always temper that with the memory of friends’ heads spiked on the Rostra by the Marius of five years ago.”
“Have you tallied the skulls lately? Sulla’s already outstripped Marius by half, and he’s nowhere near through. The old man will kill off the entire knight class before he’s done, laughing on his night walks all the while.”
“I never disputed that Sulla’s proscriptions may be the death of the republic.”
“On that, at least, we’re in agreement.”
Uncurling tentatively, Blake waited for a brief lull in the swishing tunics before trying to rise.
81 B.C.: Rome, Italy.
With a soft groan, he slumped back to the pavement.
“Mark that poor fellow over there, Curio.”
“I see him. Ho there, citizen! Can you hear me?”
Two sets of sandals stopped in front of him. A hand shook his shoulder gently, and Blake did his best to bite back the whimper that mewed out nonetheless.
“Looks in bad shape. Let’s get him out of the traffic.”
Three more hands encircled his limbs, and he shuddered despite the smooth lift.
“He’s a slight fellow, isn’t he? Could do with some of Clodia’s cooking.”
“Tunic looks well-to-do, though…I wonder if he hasn’t had a run-in with Sulla’s damned bounty hunters.”
After setting the dangerous precedent of using Rome’s own legions against her, Lucius Cornelius Sulla forces the Senate to extend his dictatorship indefini
tely.
Dimly, he registered that he was being carried toward a door. It creaked open; he went through it. It creaked shut; he was safe inside a rustic-looking house.
“He’s lucky to have anything above his shoulders, then. Either way, he’ll have shelter here. Standing up to that monster has to start somewhere.”
“Ahh, but do you have more than words in you?”
“Just lay him on the table there.”
The mild impact was still more than enough to make Blake scream, flail…and then sink.
“We’re losing him! Go, Bulla! Quickly now! Fetch Clodia. Citizen? Citizen!…”
* * *
His onetime mentor and longtime rival Gaius Marius finally dead, Sulla sets about reordering the republic in his own vision.
Shaking his head to rid it of the unwelcome text, Blake woke to a homely, middle-aged woman’s face wearing a smile so warm he couldn’t help but respond with a dazed grin of his own.
“Awake now, I see. Good: you’re sturdier than you look. But you could still do with some bread, child. Baked it myself not two hours ago.”
Sitting up cautiously, he let out a small sigh of relief on finding the pain gone. He still felt disoriented, but the closeness of the room was more cozy than claustrophobic, and the woman’s kitchen scent was revitalizing. “Thank you.”
In addition to radically altering the constitution, the aging general begins eradicating his political enemies by proscribing them—publicly declaring their lives and property forfeit as penalty for treason.
Outcasts: Short Stories by Nick Wisseman Page 15
