The glass eye explodes with fire. Brighter than ever before. Brighter than a full moon on the night sky. Pan commands the acorn to take root, to grow, to devour without single hesitation.
The acorn explodes into roots that spread out throughout the were-rats stomach. Bursting and clawing throughout the flesh. The were-rat stops in its tracks, trying to throw up and claw out the pain growing from within its guts. The beast's efforts are of no use.
Inside Pan's mind the simple acorn has turned into something as bright as the Sun. It leeches the life and substance out of the were-rat, spreading its roots and branches along the very veins until the monster can no longer move. Yet the growth is not halted, the roots seep into the murky waters, and branches grow out of the were-rats mouth. The flesh is torn as more branches manage to push their way out.
The tree continues to grow before Pan's eyes until it finally stops. What lies before the boy is a massive oak, with what remains of the were-rat stretched thin around the tree trunk. Pan hears the struggled gasping breaths for air.
The flames have died out of Pan's glass eye, his body can barely move, but the boy struggles to get up. He climbs up to meet the head of the beast and he looks at the pebble buried into the eye socket.
Pan feels no pride, no joy, no hate. He is just tired, and he wants to end it once and for all. 'May Io's smile find you on your next life.' Pan raises the slingshot up, and lets it fall down against the pebble stuck on the eye socket. He hammers it time and time again. Again and again until the stone and shaft of the slingshot finally crush the skull and reach the brain. The beast no longer breaths.
Pan wobbles back. With his hand the slingshot is drawn out and it falls into the murky waters. It is still raining around him, at first the water that slides past the leaves is dyed red. But little by little the newly grown tree at the bottom of the pit is washed clean.
Above, Mimas says but one thing: 'Woah.' As she watches the blood covered tree spread before her. She glances over her shoulder at the bird of cloth still pinned by the halberd, how the bird is still flapping its misshapen body. With a simple flick of her fingers, the cloth transforms into its inert shape.
Without the the mass of the bird to keep the blade locked against the bones, the halberd first slumps before sliding out and tumbling down. The inert cloth seems to remain stuck on a bone or another protrusion. Mimas sighs, and snaps her fingers again. The cloth bursts back to life, reshaping itself into the bird by throwing bones in wide arcs to all directions.
As no avalanche of bones follow, Mimas guides the bird to take flight letting it circle around few times before the girl makes her leap to its back. She pushes the bird down, and lands it in front of the bloodied Loge who holds a small flame on the palm of her left hand. She sits on her behind, half buried into the dirty grime and muck. 'You okay?' Mimas asks while looking how blood flows from the scratch on her forehead.
'Yeah, I am.' Loge replies after some hesitation. Her gaze wanders towards Pan who barely stands before the tree. 'We should have just picked up skulls on the way down. It was stupid to come to all the way to bottom of this pit.' Loge raises her right hand from underneath the muck and she raises it up for the falling rain can wash it clean. She looks at how the raindrops bombard her hand.
'We can pick skulls on our back way up.' Mimas retorts back with a cough.
Loge uses her right hand to touch the wound on her forehead. She flinches with the touch. 'This is going to leave a scar...'
'You are still pretty.' Mimas snorts back to Loges bloodied face, before turning towards Pan. 'Oi, it is time for us to leave.'
Pan wobbles towards the light. He and her sisters are covered in grime, but both of them climb inside the belly of the bird. Mimas asks them to look for any holes while they are inside. The two do not see anything nor feel anything out of the ordinary. Both just feel happy to not stand in the dirty water.
Thus, the great bird of cloth spreads its wings once more. It flaps and waves them up and down, gaining lift. Swooping up in a lazy manner, slowly circling around as Loge and Mimas look for skulls they could easily take with them.
Thus when the pigeon finally rises out of the pit itself, the bird's head is adorned with a were-rat skull. While Pan and Loge sit among few others, and the necessary jaw bones. The brother and sister are equally miserable as both reek like the sewer itself, a fact that Mimas makes loudly clear during the flight as the rain shows no signs of stopping.
Mimas presses her head against the neck of the pigeon for pigeons know how to fly back home. They glide past the pillars and towers lit by distant candles and fires. Above the streets and lanterns slowly dying out. The span of the wings ploughs through the rain and wind, until Mimas sees their destination. Their secret house of mystery, a house taller than the other buildings in the block. A house hidden from those who do not know of it.
The pigeon lands on the edge of the roof. The feet of cloth clinging against the edge and the bird leans towards the window. Loge is the one to push the window open, and to squeeze inside the house. Pan hands her the jaw bones, and then the skulls. Loge does not pile them far, just next to the window. She offers her hand and helps to pull Pan inside.
The moment Pan's feet disappear through the window, Mimas makes the pigeon leap back and circle the house few times. Just a round or two before landing onto the edge of the roof once more. Mimas guides the bird to let nudge its head towards the window; so that Pan and Loge can take the last skull off.
Thus the two siblings watch by the window as Mimas takes off for the one last time. How she races the bird through the sky in total ignorance of the rain, before finally heading down towards her own home. How for a moment a barrier appears and glistens before her window, how the pigeon lands on it, and then collapses into a piece of black cloth.
Mimas opens her window, and crawls in dragging the cloth with her. The barrier lingers for a moment a longer, guiding the rain water over its edges before it finally fades away.
Thus across the courtyard of their block, two windows close roughly at the same time. Mimas gets off her wet clothes, spreading and leaving them onto the floor to dry, before taking her quiet steps towards her own bed. Pallene is sound asleep, and Enceladus does his best to pretend to sleep, but he takes his little glances. And so, Mimas pulls her bed blanket aside and the illusionary puff of hair vanishes. She crawls under her blanket, and after a while the cold begins to fade. She snuggles her cheek against her pillow. Her brother gives a relieved sigh and turns to his other side.
Pan and Loge shiver as they watch the rain bombard the window glass.
'We need to get some dry clothes... I'll see you on the ground floor by the fire place.' Says Loge, before she turns away and takes her small steps towards the stairs.
'I'll see you in a moment.' Pan manages to utter back as he watches the girl disappear down the stairs. He waits a moment more before he collapses down and stares at his own hands. The fingers shake as tears begin to squeeze past his bruised eye. There is a piece in Pan's throat that he is not able to spit out.
The old rat peaks behind the bed leg, before scurrying across the floor and climbing up the pile of skulls. The old rat tilts his head to left and right, before opening its tiny mouth. 'Just let it out. It is wrong to keep tears in.'
'I... I killed someone.'
The old rat looks at down at the skulls he is standing on. 'I think you did only what you had to.'
'Because I had to... why do I always have to?'
The old rat sighs. 'Why does a rabbit find itself at the jaws of a fox, why does the fox end up as the wolf's lunch, and why does the bear gnaw the bones of the wolf? They were all hungry to live. You eat or you die. You fight or you die.'
'But... it was my fault...'
'All actions have consequences. Every decision leads to another decision. Some good, some bad, and it often takes decades to know if you made the right call.'
The boy turns his eye towards the rat. 'What if I only make the bad decisions
? What if I am bad to the heart?'
'If you were bad, it would mean you have no choices to make. Yet, we will all have choices and decisions ahead of us. We are not puppets tied down by tangled strings for the amusement of the gods. There are no strings attached to any of us.'
'But...'
'Pan, you got home, safe. You did well. So put on something warm, and go down and sit by your sister by the fireplace. Have something to eat. Rest under a blanket.' The old rat smiles. ' The laundry can wait for later.'
Pan wipes his cheek. The bruise stings on touch, but it is not too bad. Thus after a change of clothes, the boy walks down the stairs and indeed finds Loge in front of the fireplace. He huddles under a blanket, while chewing on a piece of bread and a carrot. The two stare at the fire until both fall asleep. Loge's head on Pan's shoulder, and Pan's head on Loge's curly hair. The table leg behind them gives the necessary support.
***
The old rat crawls through a shard of glass, and reappears behind vials and tomes.
Our old rat sees the old purple robed magisters continue to work by his desk. Yet, the rat's whiskers and nose reveal the fact as false. Not a flaw in his appearance, nor in the sounds of feather pen scraping against the dry parchment. How the ink oozes and soaks in its trail. The scent is not as strong as it supposed to be, not enough sweat and other sources of odour. The rat chuckles, who would ever want to admit smelling bad.
Thus the rat pokes his nose out, and lets his whiskers do the trick, and so, he notices the old magister lean against the wall. 'You were awaiting for me?' He begins.
'The Sphere of Time has been stirred. I figured you would appear here sooner rather than later.' A voice echoes from nothingness.
'I... that is impossible. It has remained dormant since...'
'Who is dabbling with chronomancy?' The old man's illusion of invisibility splinters and shatters, and the old rat finds him under the glare of the old magister. The old rat's nose almost touches that of the old magister as his eyes stare intently at the small vermin.
'That is impossible...' The old rat averts away, its eyes bewildered. But he soon looks back. 'Where?'
'The pit in the docks. The magisters who arrived to investigate the disturbance... found an oak that had apparently grown from within a were-rat, or what little was left of it.'
The old rat begins to stroke his whiskers. 'Loge perhaps could wrap her mind around the concept, but not without a tome to guide her. Mimas lacks the ability to feel fear, so she is without the trigger, the desire to stop time. This leaves us the boy, Pan.'
The old magister pulls away from the rat. 'Yes.' He mumbles, before reaching out at one his bookshelves to draw a small thin book. It is barely the size of a man's palm, and the cover is of pale greyish green leather neatly wrapped and sewed to shield the parchment. The old magisters flips the pages with his right index finger, adjusts his spectacles, and reads out remark written in hasty handwriting: 'A bleeding wound in the subject's soul seems to indicate a greater probability to manifest an innate aptitude in the art of chronomancy. The base accuracy of divinations are greatly enhanced, allowing the subject to see well beyond the means of ordinary practitioners. In addition, there seems to be incidents where the subjects claim to have manifested an ability to hasten their own personal passage of time, making it seem as if the surrounding world had fallen still for everyone else.'
'I do not remember seeing such subjects under your study.'
'It was long before your time, old friend.' The magister chuckles. 'Before many other now ancient things.'
'What do you want me to tell to the boy?'
'There is great lure in the power that chronomancy promises. But he must not use it. Not even if his life depends on it. It is the one art forever forbidden and not yet forgotten, and its use leaves lingering trails that can be followed even past the greatest of illusions and attempts to hide. It devours hearts and souls, ebbs away life, and its use will lead to disasters. It fractures time itself.' The old magister's eyes stare beyond the veil of reality, well beyond the events and memories of mortal men. 'Do you remember the days when you hunted the chronomancers down with Surtur?'
The rat's claws dig into the wood. 'Yes.'
'Isn't the irony just palatable, my old friend.'
'Yes, we used to goad them to strike at us while they were fracture from time. It splintered their arms into bloody pulp, or...'' The rat shivers. 'Or something far worse came out.'
'I have theorized that the inertia of objects becomes multiplied in the presence of active time fractures.'
'How so?'
A quaint smile rises to the face of the old magister. 'Imagine a knight on horseback galloping onwards with the lance raised. The force behind the lance with pierce armour, and throw down the sturdiest of warriors.'
The old rat glares.
'Fine, fine. You are not a child any more.' He clears his throat. 'We have established that to the chronomancer; the knight on the horse back seems as if both are frozen in time. Yet they are not. The shared momentum is simply converted into inertia as far as the chronomancer is concerned. In fact every single object around them has increased amount of inertia, even the air they breath. Not to mention how the very nature of these fractures is not a solid barrier that shields the chronomancer. It is something more elastic, flowing, like waves rippling along the surface of water.' The old magister stops to look at the old rat.
'Sigh. Ask your question.'
'What happens when you throw multiple stones into a pond of calm water.'
'The waves collide and pass through each other.'
'Exactly, now image that happening on a human body. Imagine that suddenly a small piece of your hand is now a fraction of a second behind the rest. It will be left behind. Imagine it happen a hundred times, a thousand times.'
'They get diced by time?'
'Diced by time indeed. Fractures in time are the literal death sentences for the chronomancer.'
The old rat scratches the back of its ear. 'Yet if the chronomancer were to approach the knight and stick out her sword in front of the horse's leg...'
'… The horse would run straight into it, and the chronomancers arm would end up being dislocated.'
The old rat chuckles.
'Hmn?'
'I remember now.' The chuckle turns to laughter. 'You told us to stand still all those centuries ago.'
'Yes, I think I did.' The old man joins the laughter and gives a one last look through the small book. He places his palms against the edges, and pushes his hands hard towards the book. The book bends before it shrinks small enough to disappear into the old magister's joined hands.
'You want me to take it Pan?'
The old magister nods. 'Just in case.' And hands the book for the rat to carry. 'It will not remain like that forever.'
'Yeah, yeah.' The rat mutters with the book clenches between its fangs.
'Good luck.' the old magisters says to the rat tail that disappears behind the bottles and tomes.
Chapter 11:
'Breath.' Mimas commands to a broom, yet Pallene is quick to slap at the back of Mimas' head. The broom stops shaking, and remains dormant against the kitchen wall of their home. 'But!' She tries to protest.
'Mum could come back home at any moment. How would you explain a broom moving on its own to her?'
The middle child starts with a confident grin: 'Maybe a wandering magister dropped by, after hearing us toil in the kitchen.' She wipes imaginary sweat off her forehead.
'Just grab the broom and swipe.' Enceladus replies back. 'Your clothes reeked and you should be happy that mum just thought you wetted your bed.' A remark that does annoy the middle sister a great deal, prompting her to pinch the ear of her brother, only to result the oldest doing the same to Mimas.
Pallene sighs, and lets go as Mimas lets go of Enceladus. 'Let us just get this done. I kind of want to see the skulls you brought. Are they like rat skulls, or like horse skulls?' She ponders to herself as the younge
st hands the broom to Mimas.
With apparently no choice to do anything else, the three siblings brush the kitchen floor before giving a turn to scrub it clean. A bucket, some wet rags, and our three scrub away the dirt and dust from the wooden floor planks on all fours. They crawl onwards in lines, scrubbing what lies ahead, before occasionally dipping the rags into the bucket of water.
Mimas mumbles to herself how it could be done so much faster, but her protests fall under Pallene's whistling.
***
Atlas watches how his father cleaves the carcass of a pig while its blood drips to an iron pan laid underneath. How his father then neatly cuts the pig's belly open, and commands his other sons to take the intestines for a wash.
For Atlas, this is a routine day. Little earlier he had his breakfast and helped his father move the pig from the cart is was brought on, the third last of the twenty pigs that could fit into the cart. The pig had squealed, and screamed, but there it now stood hanging head down with its neck and belly open with the rest waiting to be cut into fine pieces and portions customers had previously ordered. Every piece of the pig is to be used for something. The blood waits to be mixed with flours to make sausages along with the washed intestine. The skin to be handed to a tanner, with the the scraps turned into pork crackling.
And as it is, one of the brothers takes the skin from his father in order to finish its preparation before it is sent way while the father continues to hack and cut, to dice reasonable pieces and chunks out the pig's carcass with his sharp and heavy knife. He hands out the pieces of the meat and fat to the small plates held by the other brothers. Some the pieces are wrapped into small paper packages tied together with a string, while others are stored within ice, and rest derived to the mother on the next room to be salted and cooked.
One of the big brothers shouts out how the ice is running out, and so his father turns his stern gaze to his youngest boy. He tells Atlas to go check how much ice is needed, and to go get some from the market. The nearby brothers protest, but the father just laughs it off and points out how they would just make Atlas do the deliveries for them, and how they would head to the market to recite bad poetry at the girls. Atlas chuckles, quietly.
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