by Pete Hautman
“Kosh . . .” Emelyn touched Kosh’s sleeve, then inclined her head toward the barn door. “What about Emma?”
“Where did she go?” Kosh asked, looking around confusedly. He hadn’t noticed her leave.
“I think you should find out,” Emelyn said.
Kosh looked from Emelyn to Tucker, then at the image of Iyl Rayn, then back at Tucker. “I still can’t believe you blew up my barn.”
“That was long ago,” said Iyl Rayn. “Emma is here now.”
Kosh stared at her, drew a shuddering breath, then ran out after Emma.
“Kosh is not very smart sometimes,” Lia said.
“Yes he is,” Tucker said, leaping to Kosh’s defense.
“That’s not the kind of smart I meant,” Lia said.
“Kosh is more tender and thoughtful than you know,” said Iyl Rayn. “He will make Emma happy.”
“Yes, but first he will make her cry,” Lia said.
Emelyn laughed.
“Kosh and Emma will have to make an important decision soon,” said Iyl Rayn. “As will you all. We are at the Terminus, as you know — the forward edge of the existence of the diskos. I have made a pact with the Gnomon. The diskos are being dismantled even as we speak. Soon, the disko you see before you will be the only remaining portal to the past. One day it, too, will be gone.”
“Why do the Gnomon want to destroy the diskos?” Lia asked.
“The Gnomon fear being caught in a loop,” said Iyl Rayn. “They were unduly disturbed by your cat-with-no-beginning-or-end, and by the time stub in which Tom Krause found himself.”
“Tom?” Tucker heard himself say.
“What is a time stub?” Lia asked.
“Tom Krause returned to a Hopewell in which neither of you ever existed. In fact, his continued existence in that time stub is uncertain.”
Tucker recalled his visit to Hopewell when Red Grauber and Henry Hall had claimed to have never heard of the Krauses. Had that been a time stub too?
“How is that possible?” he asked.
“This is precisely what concerns the Gnomon. They fear that which they do not understand. It may be that we live many lives, that we each contain within us multitudes. And if each tic and quaver of the timestream creates a new reality, what of it? Consider the lepidopteran as it moves through the stages of its short life: ovum, larva, pupa, imago. Egg, caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly. Ovum, larva, pupa, imago . . . over and over again, for millennia upon millennia. Is each turn of the wheel unique and special? To the butterfly, perhaps. The universe remains indifferent.
“The Boggsians, for example, are content to relive their lives again and again. They have retreated into the past. They work their farms, raise their children, and live their lives as they always have. They have created their own time stub. That choice is available to you as well. So long as this disko remains functional, the past remains open to you.”
“I can think of places I would prefer not to revisit,” Lia said.
“Me too,” Tucker said. He thought for a moment, then asked, “What happened to Dad? I mean —”
“You mean the man who loved you and raised you as his son,” Iyl Rayn said.
Tucker swallowed, surprised to feel his eyes well with tears.
“He did love you,” said Iyl Rayn, “He lost his way; but never doubt that he loved you.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Had it come to that, he could not have brought himself to do so. Master Gheen would have wielded the blade, as he did with your friend Tom.”
“But what happened to him?”
“Adrian was visited by a Timesweep in his prison cell in Hopewell. He was transported to Romelas, at the time of the Yar Rebellion, where he ended his days preaching the word of Christ, as he set out to do as a young man.”
“It’s true,” Lia said. “I saw him there, in a church. A Christian church. He recognized me.”
“But Romelas is gone,” Tucker said. “Are there any Christians left at all?”
“The world is large — I am sure there are some, possibly the descendants of those whom Adrian reached with his message. What about you?”
“I don’t know what I am anymore,” Tucker said.
“You have time to think about it.” Iyl Rayn’s indistinct features swam, then coalesced into a smile, and for the first time, Tucker saw in her his mother’s face.
“Will you stay here with us?” he asked.
“For a while, although eventually, without the support of the Cluster, I will dissipate.”
“The Cluster?”
“That is what we Klaatu call our society.”
“So the Klaatu are gone? Except you?”
“The Cluster is moving on.”
“Does that make you afraid?”
“I have lived a very long time, and I am more curious than afraid. Will I persevere, or become bits of energy scattered across the universe? I may one day discover the answer, or all may go to black. But before I go, there is one last task I must ask you to perform.”
ROMELAS, ca. 2800 CE
TUCKER LANDED LIGHTLY ATOP THE FRUSTUM. It was dark and cool, with no moon in the sky. The zocalo was empty. Tucker made his way quickly down the side of the pyramid. He stood at the base for a few moments and looked around. He was dressed as a Lah Sept acolyte, in a loosely woven, colorless robe, and rope sandals. There was no reason for anyone to notice him — just another shadow in the night.
In his mind, he again reviewed the map that Lia had drawn for him. Her crude sketches became real as he strolled around the perimeter of the zocalo: the convent of the Yars, the temple of the priests, the colonnade. He slowed as he approached the Palace of the Pure Girls and glanced around again to make sure he was not being observed. No one was watching. He approached the front gate. He reached through the bars of the portcullis and rapped on the door. Time passed; there was no response. He rapped harder. A minute later, the door opened a crack.
“What is it?” A woman’s voice, in the language of the Lah Sept.
“The Pure Girl Emma,” said Tucker in the same language. “She is required.”
“By whom?”
“Master Gheen.”
The woman made a sputtering sound with her lips and closed the door.
Tucker waited nervously. A few minutes later, the door opened. A thin dour-faced woman stepped out and unlocked the portcullis. Behind her stood a sleepy-looking red-haired girl, perhaps four years old, clutching a doll made of cloth. The woman unlocked the portcullis, muttering a complaint that Tucker could not understand — Lia had taught him only a few words in her native language. She swung the gate open just far enough to push the girl through. She took the doll from the girl as she did so.
“Pepe!” the girl whined, grabbing for the doll. The woman held the doll out of reach and closed the gate. Tucker took the girl by the hand. She looked at him with wide eyes.
“It’s okay,” Tucker said as he led her away from the palace and across the zocalo to the pyramid.
“Where are we going?” the girl asked.
“I’m taking you home,” he said.
“Who are you?”
Tucker knelt down and looked into the girl’s blue-green eyes. She will remember nothing of this, he told himself. His heart filled his chest. He could feel tears welling in his eyes. He looked away. He did not want to frighten her.
“My name is Tucker,” he said. He lifted her in his arms and carried her up the steps of the pyramid.
At dawn, as the sun touched the top of the pyramid, the citizens of Romelas began to wander onto the zocalo, buying bread and other foodstuffs from the numerous vendors. The smell of roasting garlic, peppers, corn, and meat drifted up the sides of the pyramid.
The disko known as Heid flickered to life, taking on a faint greenish hue. A moment later it flared bright green and expelled a small figure. A pale, red-haired girl wearing a light silver shift dropped to the frustum. She fell to her hands and knees with a cry, then climbe
d to her feet and looked around. She was alone. She walked uncertainly to the edge of the frustum and looked down upon a large plaza. She knew, somehow, that the plaza was called the zocalo. People were moving around below. They looked tiny. There were several carts, some mounded with what looked like piles of fruit, others were emitting swirls of smoke. People were visiting the carts and putting things in their mouths. Eating. The light breeze shifted, and she smelled something delicious. The girl felt a twinge in her belly that she recognized as hunger. She climbed down onto the next tier, and the next, until she reached the bottom.
Following her nose, she was drawn to a brightly painted two-wheeled cart that was giving off a particularly nice smell. A woman with dark sun-dried skin stood beside it, tending to a smoking metal box. Several brown twisted things hung from strings along the side of the cart. The girl recognized them as fish. Smoked fish. She knew the words for things when she saw them, but she could not remember ever having seen them before.
The woman noticed her and smiled. She was missing a tooth, but it was a friendly smile.
“Hello, little one.”
Looking at the string of fish, the girl said, “Hello.” It was the first word she could remember ever having spoken aloud.
“And who might you be?”
The girl shook her head. She still did not know her name. She pointed at one of the fish, the smallest one.
“Are you hungry?” the woman asked.
The girl nodded.
The fish vendor, whose name was Pilar, considered the small child standing before her. The girl could not have lived even a hand of summers, and with that red hair and pale skin . . . Pilar looked toward the Palace of the Pure Girls.
“I think you are lost, little one,” she said. Clearly, this was a Pure Girl who had wandered off. Pilar had no love for the priests and their ways. It occurred to her, briefly, that she might give the girl a bit of smoked fish. It was good fish. But the Pure Girls, she knew, were forbidden from eating flesh. If she were seen feeding the child fish, things would not go well for either of them. On the other hand, if she were to return the girl to the palace, there might even be some small reward in it for her.
“What is your name?”
“I do not know,” said the girl.
“You don’t know your own name?”
The girl shook her head.
Pilar frowned. Perhaps the girl had hit her head, or been otherwise injured. In any case, it was none of her concern. She squatted down next to the girl and pointed across the zocalo toward the Palace of the Pure Girls.
“Do you see that lovely building? The one with the orange trees in front?”
“I like oranges,” said the girl, though she could not remember ever having eaten one.
“That is where you live. I will take you there.”
The girl took a step back. “I’m afraid,” she said.
The fish vendor smiled. “There is no need. Come. They will feed you persimmons and dates, and you will be adored.” She took the girl’s small hand and walked her across the plaza. They entered the shade of the orangery, and approached the palace gate. Pilar rang the brass bell attached to the portcullis. A few seconds later, the door behind the gate opened and a Sister looked out. Her eyes landed on the girl and she let out a startled exclamation.
“Lah Emma!”
“I found her wandering on the zocalo,” said Pilar.
The Sister darted her a suspicious look.
Pilar spread her hands. “I brought her here immediately,” she said.
“It is well that you did,” said the Sister. She opened the gate and pulled the girl through.
“I had hoped for some small emolument,” Pilar said, irritated to boldness by the Sister’s haughty manner.
“Emolument? You will not be whipped. That is emolument enough.”
Pilar bristled at the suggestion that she should be punished for doing nothing wrong, but she knew to hold her tongue. The Sister’s threat was not empty. Others had been punished for less.
The Sister backed into the palace, dragging the girl with her. As the door closed, Pilar heard the girl’s tiny voice say, “My name is Emma?”
HOPEWELL, 1982 CE
Tucker looked out over downtown Hopewell from the roof of the old hotel. Standing beside him, holding his hand, was the girl who would one day become his mother.
“What is this place?” the girl asked.
“Your new home,” Tucker told her.
“Is it nice?”
“It is very nice.” Tucker smiled sadly. “You will have many friends. You will meet a man named Kosh, and you will have a son named Tucker.”
“Tucker?” She looked up at him. “But that is your name!”
Tucker laughed. “I guess it is.”
“I like it,” said the girl.
Tucker took the girl down through the hotel, jimmied a window at the back, and helped her climb out. He led her around to the side of the building where there were several large, overgrown lilac bushes.
“I’m going to leave you here for a bit while I go back inside,” he said. “Can you wait right here?”
The girl looked frightened. Tucker knelt down before her and took both her hands in his. “Please don’t be afraid.”
The girl’s eyes were filling with tears. “I can’t help it.”
Tucker wiped his own eyes with the back of his hand. He wished he could take her with him back to Harmony, to the Terminus.
“Very soon, a nice man will come and take you home with him,” he said in a choked voice. “His name is Hamm.”
“I want to go back,” the girl said.
“Perhaps one day you will.”
A minute later, Tucker was back on the roof, looking down over the parapet at the red-haired girl sitting behind the lilac bushes. He could hear her faint sobbing. He felt horrible. Looking toward the street, he saw Hamm Ryan come out of Janky’s barbershop. Hamm crossed the street to where his pickup truck was parked. As Hamm opened the truck door, he looked toward the hotel with a puzzled expression. He walked over and peered though the lilacs.
Tucker waited until Hamm had led the girl back to his truck and helped her inside. He watched them drive off, then he crossed the pebbled roof to the disko. He was about to enter it when he noticed a small gray cat sitting on the parapet, staring at him.
“Hello,” he said.
The cat said, “Mreep?”
HOPEWELL TIME STUB, APRIL, 2013 CE
THE COTTONWOOD ARCHED OVER HARDY LAKE, ITS ROUGH GRAY trunk rising forty feet before the first great limb branched out over the waters. Tom Krause, lying on his back on the narrow beach, thought, That tree must be two hundred years old, maybe older. It might have been growing before the first European settlers arrived in Hopewell. It must be the biggest tree in the county. Maybe in the state.
Tom imagined himself climbing out that long branch and looking down on himself. The thought brought a tingle of fear and excitement. How high was it? Eighty, a hundred feet? He blinked, and for a moment he saw a dark, sinuous line trailing down from the branch, like a long rope. He blinked again and it was gone.
Clearly, there was nothing there . . . but he had seen something. He stared hard at the branch, wondering what he had seen. He closed his eyes and opened them. Nothing. He tried looking away from the branch, then back, and there . . . no, it was gone. If he looked off to the side, just far enough so that the branch was at the very edge of his vision, he could see something hanging. A rope. It definitely looked like a rope. But as soon as he tried to look straight at it, the rope was gone.
It was the same with his family. Lately, the more he looked at them, the less real they seemed. And it was the same for them. Some days they didn’t recognize him at all. Every morning when he woke up, Will asked him the same question: “Who are you?”
When his teachers had started referring to him as “the new boy,” he had stopped going to school. Nobody noticed him missing. He felt the world receding, rejecting him, tur
ning him into a wraith.
I do not belong here.
He spent as much time as he could at Hardy Lake, where he sometimes remembered things he had forgotten. It was warmer now that spring had arrived, but the memories came less often.
Despite the fact that he could not look at it directly, the rope felt real. More real than home, than his family. Maybe it was real, like a different reality in a different universe that was almost exactly the same as this one, only with a rope hanging from that branch. Like maybe another version of Tom Krause had climbed up a different version of that cottonwood and made a rope swing.
A rope swing! Now that was an idea. A giant rope swing. He could swing from the top of the bank out over the water and dive right in. All he needed was a rope.
Tom imagined himself inching his way out that branch, dragging behind him a hundred feet of rope. His stomach swam; he didn’t think he could do it.
Tom let his mind drift into a fantasy he’d had ever since he could remember. A friend who lived just down the road. A kid who wasn’t afraid to try stuff. Somebody he could ride bikes with, and explore the river caves. A kid who would recognize him, and remember his name.
Once again, Tom let his focus drift off to the side. The rope reappeared.
It would be really great to have a friend like that. A friend crazy enough to climb out along that branch and tie a rope to it.
A green flash caught his eye. He sat up and looked out over the lake just as something bright pink popped into existence, dropped into the water, and disappeared beneath the surface. Tom stood up and walked to the water’s edge. A bird? Something falling from a passing plane? A meteorite?
Half a minute later, a few yards from shore, the water heaved and bubbled. The pink thing broke the surface and crawled up onto the beach. It looked like a fat, pink, smooth-skinned caterpillar the size of a hog.
Tom stood rooted to the spot. The thing stopped about ten feet away and seemed to be looking at him, although it had no eyes.
Okay, Tom thought, now I know I’m insane. This can’t be real. He wondered why he wasn’t afraid.
