The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  With the word ‘war’, a jolt of power throbbed through the core of darkness. The fiends around him gasped with joy and the snakes writhed in ecstasy.

  With a sweep of his long undulating arms, Lord Belzen sent a globe spinning above them. It whirled and leapt, lit from within – a replica of the earth, joining in the dance of death. It stopped at the Western Hemisphere, where an ugly red light pulsed through the United States of America. Belzen reached up and, taking the globe, traced the Americas with his long, webbed fingers. They left a glistening trail of wet behind. ‘There it is,’ he murmured, ‘The United States of America, spiralling down, down, down, into a civil war. Britain will enter this war, France and Russia will follow. We will set the entire world on fire with this war.’

  The cries became louder, as they realized what this meant. ‘It will be most potent!’ one of them hissed.

  ‘Yes,’ Belzen responded, ‘the creation of brute force, the animal fierceness we need to survive. Our source of energy. We cannot be stopped. We will create unceasing war in this world. The Malum will harvest the ugly power of man, unchained from humanity.’

  Lord Belzen had such authority; it was difficult to interrupt him. And most of his disciples made a point of agreeing. But one voice did speak out above the howls and jeers, the hissing in the chill darkness. ‘We can be stopped,’ it said. ‘She knows everything. She has thwarted us before. She and the Tempus Fugit, they are always a threat. And beyond that, there are her friends. They are beginning to understand. Just one or two, but that is dangerous enough. The Prince we so despise, he has his doubts. And then there is Bernardo DuQuelle, Lucia, Flo—’

  Lord Belzen drew his breath in, dropping his attractive mask. His nostrils lengthened strangely, long dark slits cut into his face. The questioning voice was cut short and replaced by a sharp shriek of pain, as something whipped through the darkness and slashed at the speaker.

  ‘You are ridiculous,’ Belzen’s elegant voice became high and angry. ‘DuQuelle?’ he hissed. ‘A puppet. Lucia? She is blinded, paralysed by her beliefs. Both are ineffectual. The Verus and all their goodness, their futile attempts to make this world a place of peace – all for what? So that they can use words, take communication from this weak, silly world. We will wipe out the Verus with one swipe.’ There was another strange slap and yelp and the questioner was felled.

  ‘Are you such a coward, that she would scare you?’ Lord Belzen scoffed. ‘We will use her for our own advantage. It is easy enough to lure her here – under the pretence that her friends are calling. We know the words that will bring her. I will plant the seeds within her mind: doubt, jealousy and loneliness. She will come and we will make her ours.’

  No one dared speak, but Belzen could feel the questions in the chill air. ‘She is no longer a child,’ he continued, ‘but she is still the child who can bring war or peace. We will make certain it is WAR she brings. She lives in America, the focus of war; if not in the same time, at least in the same place. America is the heart of her temporal life. We shall use this, and her, to lure Britain into her nation’s war. She will turn against her friends. When they ask for her help, she will refuse. This girl will weaken the Prince and help us destroy the Royal Family. Their heroine? Their saviour? Hardly. She will bring the war that ends the world.’

  Whomever or whatever surrounded him in the dark liked what they were hearing, and voiced their approval in shrill cries and foul language.

  For a moment Lord Belzen allowed himself to sway and hiss along with them. ‘This is only the beginning,’ he exhorted. ‘We must set the stage in the household of the Queen.’ He tossed the globe lightly into the air. Again it spun and flashed. Its walls transformed into clear glass.

  Inside the globe, the entire world resolved into a single scene. It was a family, playing in the falling snow. A small plump woman smiled upon them and nodded her fur-trimmed bonnet, while her husband tossed their youngest daughter into the air. The small girl shrieked with joy and her red hood went flying. An older girl, with shining brown hair, caught snowflakes in her hand and brought them to her sickly brother in his bath chair. ‘See,’ she said, ‘no two snowflakes are alike.’

  ‘I know that,’ the boy replied with the pettish irritation of the invalid. But still, he looked at the flakes with interest and squeezed the girl’s hand. A young man shouted with laughter, and as he ran from flying snowballs, collided with a large grinning snowman.

  Lord Belzen watched them all at play, within his circling glass globe, and then he reached out a webbed finger to give the globe a poke. The snow fell more heavily. The earth trembled, ever so slightly, beneath the feet of the playful family. ‘How happy they are,’ he hissed softly. ‘This year they are so happy. The Queen, how the Queen loves her Prince.’

  Lord Belzen’s hissing voice transformed to the womanly tones of the Queen. ‘My precious Albert, he has made the Christmas season perfect,’ he cooed. ‘It is true Christmas and the dear, sweet children are beside themselves with the joy of the snow. Albert joins them with great spirit. Such a merry, joyful time, all due to my beloved Albert.’ Belzen’s mimicry had a cutting edge. ‘Albert! Oh, my dear Albert! You are everything to me!’

  Around Belzen there was cruel laughter as he poked again, harder, at the floating snow globe. ‘Soon, little Queen, your everything will become nothing. This year there is Christmas cheer, but next year – grief. Your heart will be in darkness. The Malum shall prevail. Katie . . . Katie . . . the time has come to play your part . . . we are calling you.’

  Raising his arm, Lord Belzen gave the globe a clout with the palm of his hand, leaving a wet mark. The snow globe shuddered. It was not just the little white flakes, but the people within that began to revolve. The Queen, Prince Albert and Princess Alice floated and swirled in chaos . . . and the dancing white flakes turned to black.

  Chapter Two

  New York City, 21 December: Here and Now

  ‘Hooonnnnkkkk!’ Was every taxi driver in New York City leaning on his horn? Katie Berger-Jones-Burg turned her head towards the terrace. The snow swirled outside the windows of Apartment 11C, looking almost black, as an early night set in. December 21st, the shortest day of the year. A day of panic. School had ended and time was running out – fast. Christmas was coming, at avalanche speed, and New Yorkers were bracing themselves. Trees needed to be decorated, lights hung in the windows, family feasts planned. Ahead lay the long car trips to Ohio or Virginia or Connecticut (even Long Island seemed an endless trip with the kids in the backseat, squabbling.) And of course there was the shopping, shopping, shopping, for nobody shops like a New Yorker.

  They were crushed together on the sidewalks, scouring the stores for something, anything, to buy. It was a battlefield out there. The streets were wet and icy and crunched with salt and grit. The sidewalks became trenches, with huge mounds of dirt and snow on either side. Postal delivery vans were double-and triple-parked. Taxis honked, buses moved at a snail’s pace and the subway was a tangle of wet, exhausted, irritated passengers. It was a good day to stay inside. But Katie Berger-Jones-Burg would rather have been outside, with the crowds, with anyone. School was out, her mother Mimi was gone and she was the only New Yorker in the world with nothing to do.

  She lay flat on her back on the big cream sofa. The window was boring, so she turned her eyes to the Christmas tree. Well, not really a Christmas tree. Her mother Mimi had given strict instructions; it was to be referred to, at all times, as the Tree of Peace. It was flocked in some kind of white spray-on junk. Miniature Menorahs, little Buddhas, and the Islamic star and crescent hung from the branches. Ribbon garlands carried Mimi’s favourite slogans: Give Peace a Chance! Just Say No! Live the Life You Imagined! And largest of all, the name of Mimi’s new fragrance: FOREVER YOUNG!

  That morning, the tree had been photographed for a press release ‘Happy Holidays from pop’s eternal role model: Mimi rocks with her multi-cultural Tree of Peace.’

  ‘The Tree of Peace, my foot,’ Katie said to
herself. The house was anything but peaceful. George, the doorman, buzzed up every five minutes with more and more packages. There were endless gifts . . . for Mimi. Bribes from fashion companies who wanted her to wear their size-zero creations, stacks of designer handbags, swathes of sandals with eight-inch heels that looked like instruments of torture – and barrels full of scented candles; it seemed this was the year that everyone introduced a scented candle.

  Mimi greeted each gift with childlike enthusiasm. She loved stuff. An entire room in Apartment 11C was dedicated to Mimi’s clothes. A light- and temperature-controlled room. The handbags each had their own velvet-lined case, labelled with their names: The Sofia – Louis Vuitton, The Jackie – Gucci, The Granville – Dior, The Anya, The Kelly, the Birkin gold . . . the Birkin turquoise, the Birkin rose… Their housekeeper Dolores said Mimi’s handbags lived a better life than most of the world’s population.

  Among the millions of Mimi gifts was the odd package for Katie. She knew already what would be inside. Technology. Endless techi-things. The latest, most talked about stuff on the market. Mimi hired someone to ‘handle her technology’ – ‘the nails darling, one must be very careful of the manicure . . .’ – but viewed Katie as the pioneer girl of the IT age.

  ‘This is your future,’ Mimi would lecture. ‘Life is so much easier with these . . . these . . . miracles of science! You don’t have to read, you don’t have to write, you don’t have to look things up or figure out where you are going. You’ll never have to decide on a restaurant, a shop, a friend. These wonderful things can do all this for you.’ Katie sometimes worried whether there was any thinking or personal choice in this wonderful new world of Mimi’s.

  Katie rolled off the sofa, and began to rummage under the Tree of Peace. Maybe her father had sent her something she might like, or her stepfather, or her other stepfather . . . When your name is Katie Berger-Jones-Burg, there are a lot of fathers who might send you a sensible gift, maybe even a book . . . She pushed aside several glittering packages, stopping to snort at one in a clear acrylic case. It was a silver and crystal evening bag shaped like a microphone. ‘To Mimi: The Voice of Our Time’ the card read.

  Dolores pushed open the door from the kitchen and, bustling through the room, began to pick up the litter of diet cola cans and crummy plates. She stopped briefly to stare at the package Katie held. ‘Those handbags!’ she snorted. ‘Mimi’s always going on about the poor. What’s that song she sings? “Feed the World”? Well, she could feed a village in Africa for a year out of the price of one of those handbags!’

  ‘“Feed the World” was a hit,’ Katie weakly defended her mother. ‘And she doesn’t buy the handbags. They just give them to her.’

  ‘Giving,’ Dolores harrumphed as she restacked the gifts under the tree. ‘There’s no such thing as giving in that world of Mimi’s. They get their money’s worth out of her.’

  ‘Mimi might give one of those handbags to you,’ Katie commented slyly. She’d seen Dolores dusting Mimi’s handbags with a sneaking look of admiration. Dolores was female, after all.

  ‘I don’t need no $10,000 handbag, I’ve got a perfectly serviceable black one for church already,’ Dolores said. ‘And I don’t want any more of Mimi’s cast-offs. Give me a handbag. I know Mimi’s idea of giving me a gift. She just switches cards on a couple of those packages. You remember last year? She gave me a mink jacket. A MINK JACKET. In size zero. With the lining personalized. Mimi it says, all embroidered in pink. She doesn’t buy gifts for people. She doesn’t pick them out. She doesn’t even hire one of those people of hers to buy ’em.’ Dolores did her Christmas shopping at Target. She lined up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning to get into the store before the crowds descended.

  Katie flopped back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Even with the traffic and the bustle she could hear Dolores muttering . . . ‘mink, size zero, Mimi, really,’ as she swept back into the kitchen to tackle the ironing. Despite this, Katie felt that tiny bit more secure. Dolores might grumble, but she was the closest thing Katie had to a caring parent. She knew Dolores wasn’t going anywhere; there was no new ‘final tour’ with a pop band, no cheesy fragrance to launch. Dolores had been looking after Katie . . . and Mimi . . . for years. And though Katie might grow up (there was little hope for Mimi) Dolores had no intention of stopping – or holding her tongue.

  Had there ever been a Mr Dolores? Not that Katie could remember. There was a son, Tyrell, and a daughter, Sonia. Katie often heard stories about them as she hung out in the kitchen. Tyrell spent time with his friends, was wild about computer games and basketball, pretty much a glorious human boy. He was about to go to college and study sports physiotherapy.

  Sonia was a nurse and worked long hours. She was married, with children, and lived in the Bronx. Sonia and her husband were both good church-goers. Dolores thanked God for every night, on her knees. Sonia might have married early, but she’d finished nursing college. Tyrell didn’t belong to a gang and didn’t take drugs. Just a few more years for Tyrell and they’d both be in that safe harbour most mothers dream of.

  Katie thought about Dolores. She seemed to be in charge of everyone . . . Sonia, Tyrell, Katie, Mimi. After finishing a long day in Manhattan, Katie knew Dolores took the train out to the Bronx and helped Sonia with the children. All this didn’t come without a lot of sacrifice. Mimi was a great believer in me time. Well, it seemed like Dolores only had you and you and you time. Dolores poked her head back around the kitchen door. ‘Honey, I hate to tell you, but you’ve got to get ready for that doctor’s appointment.’ This time her voice was soothing, though her face looked worried.

  All was not right with Katie Berger-Jones-Burg. It had started with the attack. Their neighbour, ex-boyfriend of Mimi’s and resident psychopath Professor Diuman, had broken into Apartment 11C. Mimi had been brutally beaten. The police had found Katie locked in the bathroom. She seemed to have slept through the entire thing.

  For once Mimi’s plastic surgery was necessary rather than voluntary. But she made a miraculous recovery. She looked great, and it had been a shot in the arm for her career. Plucky Mimi Fights off Attacker! The headlines had screamed. Mimi Recovers from Near Death Experience: Long Live Mimi! Katie had to admit, Mimi might not have much of a voice, but she had a terrific agent. They cut a deal with one of the big cosmetic firms and Mimi launched her own fragrance: FOREVER YOUNG! Between the television appearances, the endless interviews and the national tour, she was in seventh heaven.

  Katie hadn’t suffered even a scratch from the attack, yet she wasn’t doing nearly as well. She just couldn’t seem to bounce back. She lacked Mimi’s exuberance, or perhaps it was Mimi’s lack of reflection. Katie was worried and anxious. No one understood why Professor Diuman had suddenly turned violent. Sure, he’d gone out with Mimi, years ago, but they’d maintained a perfectly good friendship. Diuman was incapable of explaining. He wasn’t in prison, but in Bellevue Mental Hospital – totally bonkers. He spent the day talking, talking, talking, until he lost his voice. ‘The walking stick . . .’ he cried over and over, ‘the walking stick!’

  It was as Katie had suspected. The walking stick always spelled trouble. It had arrived at Apartment 11C years before, addressed to Katie Berger-Jones-Burg, with a card engraved with just two words: Aide-memoire. There was no name, no signature, and no explanation. Aide-memoire – to help her remember.

  And the worst thing was, she could remember. Just snippets, flashes of memory. Strange things were going on in Katie Berger-Jones-Burg’s brain. Images and people, sights she’d never seen before and voices she’d never heard. She hated what was happening in her head. And she hated the effect it had on the people around her. Dolores was worried sick, she knew it. And Mimi – the enthusiastic, loud, dramatic Mimi – now became quiet, almost frightened, when her daughter was in the room.

  Katie continued to lie on the sofa, eyes closed, worry lines etched between her brows. Dolores came in and stroked Katie’s head with her worn, warm hand. ‘Come on
, sweetheart,’ she encouraged Katie. ‘Let’s get you up and out. Talking to that doctor, it really should help.’ But Katie had her doubts. Would anything really help?

  Chapter Three

  The Doctor’s Office

  No matter how many times Katie sat in the doctor’s reception, it never got easier. She hated the tasteful light-brown leather sofa, the piles of National Geographic magazines and the latest copy of Vogue on the coffee table. There were some foam puzzles for younger patients to put together – nothing with sharp corners, of course. The paintings on the walls were designed to be neutral, peaceful and unchallenging. It was all too careful. It gave itself away. It was a room designed for people on the edge, about to go over.

  Usually, everyone sat as far apart as possible; each person believing ‘I am actually well, and I don’t want to catch crazy from anyone here . . .’ But today a boy, really a young man, came in and sat down right next to Katie. She started to get up and find another seat. But something about him caught her attention and made her stay.

  He was older than Katie, quite tall, with square shoulders, a strong nose and thick brown hair standing every which way atop his head. Everyone else in the room looked at a magazine, or a picture on the wall or twisted their hands in their laps. This boy looked right at Katie, with bright blue eyes. He had the air of someone who’d just heard a good joke. He seemed to want to share this joke with Katie. She felt a jolt, and a wave of joy surged through her.