Time Knot

by M. C. Morison

  All this had taken time. Night was setting in, giving us useful cover. Nysa dug her nails into my arm.

  “Ow!”

  She pointed to the approaching shore. I twisted around to see a building on fire, the flames, whipped bright and high by the brisk wind, flaring over the water.

  ‘That is where the canal entrance is.’

  ‘You mean right by the fire?’

  I contorted once more as flames dipped and licked right to the water’s edge. Something collapsed and sparks jetted skywards.

  ‘We’ll have to land near the South Gate and make our way on foot.’

  Nysa grimaced. This hadn’t been part of the plan at all, and would mean walking right through the City, with the bishop’s men and goodness only knows who else looking for us.

  I glanced over at Myrna, and she nodded. Nysa spoke to the man in charge of our little boat. He tacked and headed towards the shore somewhat east of the canal entrance. Håkan had adopted his dour expression once more. I felt my stomach sinking past my scraped and damp knees. My comfortable cotton tunic, with embroidered shirt, now had stains. I no longer looked like a minor prince of the East. Once more I ached everywhere and my cheek felt like I’d just been massaged there with coarse sand paper.

  We wove, with some skill, through rows of boats moored to buoys close to a little harbour. Unlike the main harbour on the other side of the city, this one had scant illumination. That didn’t give our sailor pause, and he steered by his own radar, narrowly missing dark boats and occasionally nudging one slightly aside, to slip closer to the shore. We were so focused on his nautical weaving skills that the shouting took time to register.

  “There’s a riot going on,” said Håkan.

  Moored boats with furled sails hid parts of the harbour. Behind them the darkness flowed with opaque motion. Here and there a face, lit by a fiery torch carried high, shouted silent words. Faint screams reached us until the wind altered and beat against our faces, accompanied by shouts of terror or ferocity, and maybe both. The boatman looked at Myrna and she indicated he should continue in.

  ‘I foresaw this in a dream.’

  Myrna leant close to us even though her mute mouth remained firmly closed. ‘You must seek the garden with the Palladium. That is your salvation.’

  ‘I agree, I saw it too, in the Hall of Records.’ Nysa squeezed my arm.

  ‘How do we find it?’

  This from me, being practical as well as doing a passable impression of abject terror. Myrna touched my undamaged cheek, her eyes full of warmth.

  ‘We’ll lead you. The confusion will hide you and is your friend. Just keep close. Our advantage is we don’t have to talk or shout to find each other.’

  Myrna pulled the belt of her robe tighter and slipped a hood over her dark hair.

  The boat bumped against a small sloping jetty. Our boatman jumped out holding the painter and shouted at us to be heard over the hubbub. We scrambled onto the slippery jetty. I skidded, just avoiding another damp tumble, and then we were swept into the crowd. Panic, fear, excitement, anger surrounded us, as did fire. Young men shouted as they carried flaming brands. Even with all these voices and all the emotions I could pick out the shared idea.

  ‘They are going to burn the Great Library.’

  Nysa and Myrna nodded. Håkan beat his fist into his palm. We put our heads down and forced our way through to the low warehouses at the back of the narrow wharf. Moments later we’d slipped down a tight little alley, disturbing cats and what might’ve been a fat rat, and we’d made it into the back streets of Alexandria. Myrna led us up weaving lanes and tiny passageways. She seemed to know this obscure back part of the city really well. We reached a medium-sized temple by the edge of a small square. Here a strange silence reigned, as though the building held its breath. We pressed close into its shadows. Myrna stopped by a small studded door. She ran her hands over it to find something. Drawing a key from the folds of her cloak, she slipped it into a large keyhole; moments later we were in the relative quiet of an atrium.

  ‘This belongs to our Sisterhood. We should be safe here. The mob has its sights set on much bigger prizes than this obscure temple to Maat.’

  She led us further in and we mounted some stairs towards the back. We came out on a flat roof that had a view across the city and to the top of the Pharos Lighthouse rising up above the rooftops. We could make out the main streets running from East to West. They all flickered with torchlight.

  Women standing on the roof started keening. They swayed against each other. A mournful, groaning sadness arose in me. Nysa held my hand and I held Håkan’s. Myrna stood behind us with her arms across our shoulders. Watching history happen is not the joy it should be, whatever the History Channel claims. We moved to the edge of the roof, beside the priestesses. Nysa choked back a sigh.

  A huge square central to the city filled with lights; maybe I’d visited this forum when about to be auctioned as a slave, the one near the statue of the bearded god. Gradually it grew brighter as hundreds of young men gathered. When the wind, swirling around, blew once more in our faces, we could hear the growling menace of hundreds, maybe thousands of men, determined to be bad.

  One moment the square pulsed with light. The next, the street leading from there towards the Great Library became a flowing river of fire.

  ‘The prophecy.’ Nysa spoke slowly so we could follow her words within. ‘The prophecy is being fulfilled. When a river of fire flows a great calamity will come … something like that.’

  I pushed my knees against the cold stone of the balustrade. How could these idiots be stopped? How could these idiots be so idiotic?

  A small cry came from one of the priestesses. She pointed. A tiny dart of flame arose in the darkness far to the left of the Lighthouse, whose beam watched these iniquitous events with the dispassion of a god. The first flame found its twin and then the twins had a companion. Moments later a huge blaze arose at one end of the building, picking out its vastness in eerie shimmering light. The windows of the Library glowed, as though a party of monstrous merriment was taking place inside. Scrolls, books, learning, priceless thoughts from the previous thousand years, or maybe much longer, vanished within seconds. Manuscripts that had taken days to copy were gone in a twinkling: one moment luminous ideas and the next, glowing ashes. The priestesses hung onto each other, wailing. Myrna held us closer. The paving shivered under our feet. I felt drunk. The rooftop moved like the boat we’d just been on when it sideswiped another craft. I put my foot back to keep balance and hit Myrna’s shin. Nysa fell over.

  ‘An earthquake.’

  It had finished by the time we’d helped Nysa back on her feet; but the landscape had changed. The fire in the Library, raging through such flammable wisdom, had weakened the building enough that the earthquake had brought down one of its walls. The flames now leapt so high we could make out the details of nearby Alexandria as though in daylight.

  Two priestesses came closer. The shorter one whispered in Myrna’s ear and then both gave Myrna a hug. She nodded. The short woman, in her thirties, her eyes red, looked at us steadily. She touched my good cheek, did the same to Håkan and then kissed Nysa.

  ‘Come –’ Myrna squeezed our shoulders once more – ‘now is the time to go. Everyone will be watching the end of the world as they know it. We know different. The long night has begun but you, my young friends, you will all be there at the dawn.’

  She stood in front of us, at the top of the stairway, her face lit in the reddish glow of the fires that now jumped from building to building.

  ‘And maybe so will I,’ she added, and I had the distinct image of Shelley, the Irish girl who had helped me at a crucial moment, getting up from a chair in a distant cottage as though she’d seen a ghost.

  “Time to go home”

  A surge of distant noise swirled around us, along with glowing embers and charred scraps of documents. Smouldering cinders high above mocked the purity of the stars, crossing the sky like minute
devil’s comets. The streets we followed were largely empty, but easy to navigate in the reddish pall that now enveloped all of Alexandria. At one point we pressed ourselves into a dark doorway as a troop of soldiers rushed past, swords drawn, fear distorting their faces.

  ‘The Governor’s men. Not a good night for them. They’re meant to protect Alexandria’s treasures.’

  Myrna held her arms across us as she shared her thoughts, waiting until the last rattle of buckle on breastplate had been swallowed into the distant mêlée of sound.

  We crossed a square, avoiding two figures lying very still in the middle of a puddle. On the far side a building had collapsed, leaving a gap like a missing tooth. We picked our way carefully over rubble, and disappeared into a narrow lane.

  ‘This leads to the park. The one with the Palladium.’

  We froze as a growling mass of paws and jaws barked its way past us; at least twenty feral dogs intent on goodness knows what. A few minutes later we entered the comparative calm of the park. The reddish glow of the not-so-distant hell gave the trees a piebald look. We crossed a central ceremonial walkway leading towards a distant glimmering temple and could see the main harbour for the first time. The Lighthouse stood undamaged. To the right, where the palace with the Labyrinth Library stood on its own island, flames surged into the night, reflected as a gash of fire on the water as though the sea itself burned.

  Myrna groaned. Nysa shouted and tore at her hair. I felt sick.

  Tiny figures, silhouetted against the inferno, danced and waved torches above their heads. Snatches of some hymn carried on the ash-strewn breeze along with frenzied shouts. A man on a pale horse galloped along the harbour’s edge scattering the arsonists. He carried a banner that flapped maniacally above his head. Cheers followed him as he swerved onto the main parade that led down to the harbour from the city centre.

  Håkan swore in Swedish. I shouted something that would make a football player cringe. Myrna turned to face us.

  ‘Peter the Reader. A man sent by the devil himself.’

  Behind her the sea frothed. The ground under us trembled and a low groaning passed beneath our feet. Everything wobbled and shook. Seagulls, soaring like flaming doves over our heads, screamed and screeched. The palace on the island quivered, shattered with an explosion of flame and a giant fountain of sparks, and tumbled slowly into the surging waves. Moments later the sea gushed over the harbour wall and ran, glowing like red lava, up the side streets. When it finally flowed back the harbour stood empty, its wet surface reflecting the embers that now filled the night sky. Many buildings near the harbour had fallen and new fires sprang up in their rubble.

  To one side of us a great crack had opened in the soil of the park, big enough that we had to jump to cross it. Myrna pushed us further into the park, moving parallel to the harbour. The ghostly shape of Apollo’s Palladium appeared between the trees. It stood on a low rise surrounded by a paved area, now cracked as though some celestial giant had dropped the whole thing from a considerable height.

  ‘Go on. The moment is now. Now you can return.’ Myrna held each of us briefly. I shook Nysa’s hand, and then with historical inappropriateness, kissed her on the cheek. She put her hand to where I’d touched her.

  ‘Now,’ Myrna shooed us on with her hands. We ran towards the Palladium, where eight goddesses stood straight holding the roof high and one had half turned, as though in surprise at what had occurred in the harbour. We entered a bandstand from a different era. Nysa and Myrna stood half hidden by trees bathed with distant firelight. Smoke or something caused my eyes to water.

  Nysa nestled into Myrna as the boys ran up towards the Palladium. Her mute friend drew her close with her arm.

  “Losing Rhory and Håkan is like losing two brothers.”

  ‘You’ll see them again, I’m sure.’ Myrna smiled at the young girl, and used her sleeve to dab at a tear. They both lurched to the side as the ground seemed to tip. Nysa screamed. A further tremor had her on her knees as a terrible crashing noise pounded her ears. Dust rose from the Palladium, glowing red with the flames of ancient learning. Nysa scrambled to her feet and pounded her way to where the boys might be trapped under the fallen masonry.

  A groaning, formless cry came from behind her.

  ‘Careful, careful.’

  Hovering on the first of the three steps that led up to Apollo’s circular sanctuary, Nysa surveyed the stonework and damaged floor. Dust still flowed like toxic fog. Myrna came up next to her, limping. Firmly gripping her shoulder to keep Nysa standing outside the broken building, Myrna mounted the next two steps and entered. She crossed the floor to the far side and then circled around back to the entrance. She took Nysa’s face in her hands.

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  Nysa wailed. “You mean they’re…” She couldn’t say it.

  ‘No. I mean they’ve gone. Returned. They’re not here.’

  It took time for the meaning of Myrna’s thoughts to seep into her soul. Nysa smiled. Turning again to the Palladium she could now make out all the floor. In the middle lay a single stone, the size of a pear. She crossed over to it and picked it up. Its edge felt sticky against her palm. The smudge on her hand, illumined by distant firelight, looked like blood. It mixed with the abrasions on her palm.

  “Now we are truly brother and sister,” she whispered.

  Myrna smiled. ‘Time to go home.’

  Hospital

  England – about now

  The nurse checked the monitor in the corner of the room and the level of the clear fluid held high by a stand and connected to the sleeping patient’s arm. All remained as it should. The patient’s breathing rose and fell steadily. The nurse made some notes on the chart at the bottom of the bed. As she turned to leave a movement of the hand on the white cover on the bed alerted her.

  “Oh. You’re awake. Just rest easy. I’ll get the doctor.”

  The patient managed a wan smile.

  Outside the private room in St. Bart’s Hospital sat a man with an expensive suit and silvery hair. He carried a bunch of flowers and a rather small, expensive basket of fruit, crinkly with stiff cellophane.

  “Are you in charge?” The man smiled a nurse-winning smile.

  “No,” said the nurse, smiling back in spite of herself. “I need to get the doctor.”

  “May I go in? I’m a relative,” the man purred. “I’ve been waiting more than an hour.”

  Once more his eyes crinkled and once more the nurse found herself behaving not as normal.

  “Of course,” she answered, and bustled off to find the doctor.

  Victoria used the button to raise the back of her bed to a better angle to talk to her guest. Sardius had placed the fruit on her bedside table and sat in a functional but comfortable leatherette armchair nearby. Its pale green colour matched the decor of the room.

  The man’s eyes glittered.

  “You failed, then.”

  Victoria felt a wave of anger pass through her, but kept her face passive. She wriggled higher up against the pillow and pulled her light silk dressing gown closer around her bosom. A moment of light-headedness vaporised her thoughts. She took a sip of water from a little plastic cup. Her hand, despite all that had happened, remained steady.

  “No. We succeeded. We arrived at the right place at exactly the right time. The brats acted like a homing signal. Emerald and I emerged in the temple and had ample time to prepare our reception for the three junior time travellers. All was proceeding really well. We’d made an energetic link with Diamond while we were still in London—

  “I know, Onyx,” said Sardius, his words falling onto her like sharp icicles. “I was there. Remember? We had it all set up for you. All you two had to do was the relatively easy task of dealing with these troublesome children.”

  “Now you mustn’t tire our patient.” A doctor entered the room, in jeans and a rather expensive white ribbed pullover bearing a small logo of a crocodile with a red mouth. His straight blue-black hair sugges
ted his origin in India, and his good looks might have offered an alternative career in Bollywood. He took his stethoscope from its position as a pet snake around his shoulders and listened to Victoria’s chest. He took her pulse.

  “Everything is ship-shape Victoria,” he said, using a level of familiarity that on other occasions would have had her spitting pure venom. “But you need to rest, my dear. Not too much stimulation.”

  This the doctor directed to Sardius.

  “And plenty of sleep.” And with a nod to the nurse, he’d gone.

  “Leave us alone please,” said Victoria to the nurse, with just enough chill in her voice to restore the cosmic balance.

  “Please get me a tea. Be a dear.” She emphasised the last word and Sardius frowned but left the room in search of the tea dispenser.

  Victoria settled back into her pillow. Only a few days before all had been running just as it should. She’d reached Number 11, as the office building was titled. She travelled up by the express elevator and gained the stunning panoramic view over the City of London. Crossing the extensive Penthouse Suite she descended five floors on a private elevator, the one few people in the building even knew existed. She entered an inner space constructed precisely over the remains of a temple to some ancient Middle Eastern goddess, thoughtfully erected by the Romans when this plot of land near the Thames had briefly belonged to them. The roof of this part of the building was formed by a pyramid of thick glass, similar to the one outside the Louvre, but older by several years. Money and influence kept its form hidden even from the never-sleeping eye of Google Earth. The light streamed down to the foundations of the temple far below, because the seven floors of this building within a building were made entirely of reinforced glass. Every part calibrated, the entire structure acted as a powerful time vortex. Some of the Stones even joked about it, calling it Tardis-by-the-Thames.