by April White
Whispered voices finally dragged me up to consciousness, and I opened my eyes with something like relief to be free of the restless dreams. Ringo sat on the floor with his back to the settee where I slept, and Tom perched on the other settee. Bas sat on the floor opposite me with his back against an ottoman. He was the first to notice I was awake, and he smiled so warmly at me that the restless edge of my dreams calmed.
“Hello, Saira,” he said in his beautiful, deep voice. The desperately chiseled bones in his face had softened, and his striking looks were back. He was still thin, but he seemed strong and well-fed.
“You’re back,” I said softly, and he laughed.
“Yes, I am much recovered thanks to you and your friends.”
“I’m glad.” I smiled happily. With Bas in it, the world was a better place.
“We’ve been talkin’,” said Ringo. I sat up, gratified to find that despite not sleeping well, my head was no longer pounding. Our satchels were next to him on the floor, and I looked over at Tom. The small leather field bag he usually carried was on his lap.
“Are we going somewhere?” I included them both in my question.
Tom very deliberately reached into his bag and removed something, which he then placed on the low, round brass table between us. I recognized the object as if it was from a dream, or maybe a different lifetime – it was the black knight chess piece he’d been carrying in medieval France when we finally found him.
“This belonged to Léon. I took it from his body after I accidentally killed him.” There were tears very near the surface of his voice, and I suddenly got how hard it had been for him to say accidentally. “It had been his father’s, and grandfather’s before him, and was the only piece left from a set that had been in their family for generations.”
He looked down at his hands. “I ended that family when I took Léon’s life. I took this piece that night, and every time I look at it I think I have to do better than I’ve done. I have to be better than my family and my blood.”
Tom inhaled deeply, as though trying to find courage, and then he met my eyes. “I stopped carrying it on me for a while. I deliberately turned my back on anything that reminded me there was something worth striving for. Without that knight in my pocket, I lost whatever good I’d had left in me.”
I protested, “It’s still there, Tom. I saw it.” He shook his head and looked ready to contradict me, but I wouldn’t let him. “No really, I did. My daggers – these …” I pulled one from my bag and laid it on the table next to the black knight. “They belong to Death.” At his look of astonishment, I held up my hand. “It’s a long story, but trust me, it’s true. When anyone’s blood touches the blade of one I’ve thrown or used, I get an instant impression of … their soul, I guess. It’s like seeing who they are at their deepest level, but through a feeling and sometimes color. At first I thought it was just adrenaline from fighting or something, but last night I realized I’d actually been seeing the truth of people in their blood.”
I turned to Ringo. “That’s why Death blooded MacFarlane at the Council meeting on the other time stream – I must have seen what he saw because I was holding its twin.” I stared at the others, wide-eyed. “Death is the judge because with these—” I picked up the dagger with a degree of awe, “—he can know what’s in a person’s soul.”
I replaced the dagger in its sheath at my back while I spoke. “My daggers hit Duncan last night, and the pure evil in him almost took me out at the knees. But then he threw one at you, Tom, and it nicked your arm, remember?”
Tom looked at me like I was barely keeping it together, but he nodded. “Well, I saw what was in your soul then, and there was a band of bright light in the middle of it. You are a good guy, Tom. In your deepest, truest heart, you are good.”
The shock on Tom’s face was palpable, and then tears filled his eyes and he wiped them away before they could fall. He picked up the black knight from the table and cradled it in his hands, looking down so he didn’t have to see anyone’s sympathy.
“It’s time to take it out of my bag and carry this in my pocket again. I’ve had enough hate for a lifetime, and none of it has made me feel better about what I’ve done.” He tucked the black knight into the pocket of his trousers, gave his face one last wipe, and then met my gaze. “I want to go back to 1944 with you. If there’s any chance we can fix the split and go home, I want to be part of it.”
“You wouldn’t be part of it, Tom, you’d be all of it. I can only get you there, to the moment just after you left the platform. The rest is all you,” I said softly.
He sputtered a laugh. “I’m not really well-known for my good choices under pressure.”
“Just as long as you don’t make stupid ones that get you shot,” I said severely.
Tom scoffed and leaned back on the settee. He might have said something else, but Bas interrupted. He was staring at the now empty table, and seemed to be deep in thought.
“I once knew a man who carried a black knight in his pocket when he went into battle,” he said quietly. He seemed very far away as he spoke. “It was during the Crusades. I’d been conscripted into the English King’s forces and sent to Jerusalem to aid Richard’s effort to take the Holy Land back from Saladin.” Bas seemed to focus on us again, as though he were telling the story rather than just recounting the memory.
“After the battle of Arsuf, Saladin and his small force retreated to Ascalon, where Richard the Lionheart was certain he could win. But when we arrived at Ascalon, we found the city deserted and the towers destroyed. In dire need of resupply, we were easily bested in battle and never even saw the Holy City itself before we were beaten back.”
Bas met our eyes as if to underscore the importance of his words. “The opposing leader, Saladin, was an expert tactician who spent most of his life in a fierce fight against the Crusaders. He was a warrior, and the most noble war commander I’d ever witnessed. When he took Jerusalem from the Crusaders, he freed slaves and allowed those who could not afford to pay his ransoms to leave the city unmolested. Despite his Kurdish heritage and Muslim faith, Saladin summoned the Jews to return to the city and permitted Christian pilgrims to visit. He sent two horses to King Richard to replace one that had fallen at Arsuf, and at the time of his death, not long after the treaties were signed, he had but one piece of gold and forty pieces of silver. He had given the rest of his treasure to the poor and did not even leave enough to pay for his burial. Saladin was known in Europe as a most chivalrous knight for his generosity and fairness, even in battle, and in the Muslim world, he was regarded as a leader of great heroism.”
Bas looked directly at Tom. “Saladin was also a Monger, and it was in his pocket the game piece could always be found.”
Ringo and I glanced at each other with a ‘Whoa. Didn’t see that coming’ look, while Tom gazed down at the black knight that he flipped over and over between his fingers.
He finally looked up and met Bas’ eyes. “Even though War himself is a proper wanker, you’re saying it’s still possible for his Descendants – notably Saladin, and possibly even me – to be decent human beings?”
Bas smiled warmly. “Yes. I have seen it with my own eyes, and it is not so rare as you may think.”
Tom smiled a little at that, and it was good to see the smile could come back. “What are you going to do now, Bas?”
Bas leaned back with both arms behind his head and appeared to contemplate the ceiling. “Well, I suppose I should probably make myself scarce from Rome for a few years – at least until I’ve outlived this pope. It’s a shame, really, because there is much work to be done here.”
“It’s pretty hard to do God’s work from the bottom of a pit, though,” I said.
He laughed. “That is true. The conversations are interesting though.”
“Between you and God?” my voice squeaked.
“I certainly hope so. The number of things He knows about me would be rather awkward otherwise.” Bas grinned.
&nbs
p; “Remember what we told you about European Jews in the 20th Century,” I said. Obviously, he had paid a little attention to my warnings when I’d first met him, because when we saw him in 1944, he was a Catholic priest helping to hide Jewish children. None of us had mentioned that meeting to him this time though. That was still a hundred years in his future.
“I remember. Your Archer was also quite adamant I avoid England during my Protestant days, at least until Her Majesty, Elizabeth Tudor, was firmly on the throne. That was excellent advice, and I quite enjoyed my time in London in the latter part of her reign. I became rather fond of going to the theater then. The Globe was a particular favorite of mine.”
That got Ringo’s attention. “Ye mean where Shakespeare put on ‘is plays?”
Bas didn’t bother to suppress his grin. “He was a fascinating man to ply with drinks in the tavern after an opening night. Perhaps one day you can convince Saira to take you to a show. The opening night of King Lear was quite spectacular.”
Ringo’s mouth fell open, and he turned to me, but I interrupted before he could speak. “Not a good idea.” I said sharply.
“But—”
“Not. A good. Idea.” I used my best mom tone and he scowled, so I arched an eyebrow at Bas. “Really?”
He grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “My experience of time will only ever be linear. I’ve lived far too long to ever skip my lifetime the way you young people can. But, just as you can warn me to avoid certain future events, I can also make suggestions for those in the past that you may want to attend. It is fair play, is it not?”
He got up off the floor and dusted his clothes. “Well, my dear friends, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for rescuing me from the Vatican dungeons. Beautiful Saira,” he took my hand and kissed the back of it, “I feel we shall meet again, and I look forward to circumstances that might allow for leisurely conversations about life and love and God and history.”
I gave him a big hug that seemed to startle him, but then again, he had only known me for a brief time in medieval France, so he had yet to experience our conversations around the kitchen table in Oradour-sur-Glane. “Where will you go?” I asked him.
He shook Ringo’s hand as he answered. “I had thought to travel to China. There are Muslim persecutions there that I could be of use in quelling, and I’ve heard tell of Shaolin monks whose temple to Buddha is also a school. I think I should like to spend a decade or two in study.”
He clapped Tom on the back as he shook his hand, and the comradery between them seemed genuine. “Your path has opened before you, young friend. I wish you wisdom and faith on your journey forward.”
Bas strode from the room, and turned only long enough to make a gesture I associate with ‘thank you.’ I looked at Tom in surprise.
“Was that just sign language? As in ASL?”
“I think so,” he said, with as much confusion. “Hey, Saira?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
He made the same ‘thank you’ gesture, and then he smiled.
Saira – 1889
Ringo got older the minute we landed at the London Bridge.
We had arrived the hour before dawn and ran to Ringo’s flat just to test out our injuries. We had decided to give Tom one more day of healing before we Clocked directly into the British Museum station, and he didn’t care where he slept. We’d made a promise to leave Artemisia’s villa, and there was a war on in 1944. In 1889, Ringo could reset to his natural age, and we could stay one more day in a familiar place before we stepped into so much danger and uncertainty.
Ringo and I sat at his table nursing cups of tea. Mary had sent us with enough food to feed five people, so we didn’t need to leave the flat if we didn’t want to, but neither of us really had an appetite. Tom had made a bed for himself on the floor away from the windows, and I watched him idly for a moment while my tea cooled.
“He’s aged too, even though he should look the same as he did before.” I’d been studying the lines in the corners of his eyes. When his eyes were closed, I barely saw the difference, but when they were open, I could see the telltale shadows of too much experience in them.
I shifted my eyes to Ringo’s face. We hadn’t been away a long time, but when the change is sudden, it’s noticeable. More whiskers glinted in the light, his jaw and cheekbones stretched the skin taut, and his hands and forearms looked corded with lean muscle.
“Ye’ve changed,” Ringo said to me. I started at his words, not aware that he’d been studying me too. “Ye’re eyes ‘ave seen more, so they dance less when ye’re restin’. And when ye smile now, it’s deeper, maybe even truer, but it’s not so often, and I miss the ready laughter.” His look was appraising over the rim of his mug. “Ye can run longer now than I’ve ever seen ye go, but ye’re not as reckless with yerself. Ye’ve felt what it is to be ‘urt and it makes ye careful.”
Ringo had never owned a mirror, but he’d found a piece of one when Charlie had lived here with him, and he got up to find it. It had been a long time since I’d studied myself in any mirror – a long time since I’d cared what I looked like beyond my ability to blend into whatever year I found myself.
I studied my face in the shard of mirror. Up close my eyes held less laughter, and my mouth was completely neutral when I wasn’t smiling. My eyebrows were nice though, and I liked my cheekbones – they made interesting hollows and planes in my face. They were balanced by a jaw that let me get away with dressing like a man if a person didn’t notice the long eyelashes. I’d gotten stronger, and lean muscle had settled in, and I knew I would rarely ever fit the world’s idea of feminine beauty. But I could be graceful when I wanted to be, mostly when I was running, and my body was strong enough to do what I asked of it most times.
“Ye’re beautiful,” he said quietly, and I shook my head.
“There’s nothing conventional about my looks.”
Ringo shrugged, “Conventions are more of a guideline than a rule.”
I burst out laughing. “You watched Pirates of the Caribbean?”
He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. “Connor and I were tryin’ to decide which characters we were more like.”
I laughed. “So, who’s Jack Sparrow?”
He snorted. “Neither of us. We’re both Will Turners, though I wouldn’t mind bein’ a bit more Elizabeth Swann.”
My eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”
“Well, Will is fairly obvious for us – ‘e’s loyal, and brave, and will fight to the death for people ‘e loves. But Elizabeth is a natural leader, and she’s a great battle strategist. She also says exactly what she means, even if it offends someone more powerful. Mostly, though, she inspires people to follow ‘er, like she did all the pirate kings. Connor and I both agree ye’re the most like Elizabeth of all of us, and we’re glad to be yer Wills.”
I shook my head at him but couldn’t hold back the smile. “That might be the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“Nah, when I said ye could run for longer than ye used to, that was nicer.”
He pulled a small silk bag from his pocket and slid it across the table to me. “‘Ere. I found this for ye in Rome.”
I’d forgotten that Ringo had gone shopping in the city when Artemisia and I were in the Tower of the Winds. I untied the little bag, and a bead strung on a piece of leather fell into my hand. It was Venetian glass of a beautiful amber color swirled through with gold, vaguely eye-shaped, and utterly breathtaking. I looked up at him in wonder. “It’s so beautiful.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes, but got up to tie the leather around my neck. “It reminded me of yer Cat’s eyes,” he said quietly. The bead nestled in the hollow below my throat, and I touched it reverently.
“Thank you, Ringo.” I turned to hug him, but he dodged my embrace. He went over to the post where I’d carved the crowned heart, touched it lightly, then hauled himself up the climbing rope that dangled from the ceiling. He sat on the cross beam and leaned against the support, didn’
t invite me up, and didn’t meet my eyes. I left him to the only solitude a person could get in a single room loft.
I rinsed the mugs and dried them, then re-checked my bag to make sure I had everything I wanted to Clock with. Ringo still hadn’t come down from his perch after I’d done whatever washing I could manage with the limited facilities, so finally I called up.
“I’m going to nap for a while. Shove me over if you want to sleep too.”
“I won’t be doin’ that,” he called down quietly.
“Why not? The bed’s big enough,” I said as I lay down on it. I wasn’t sure what the night in the tunnels would bring, and I felt like rest and food were the only ways I could prepare myself.
He mumbled something that I couldn’t have heard right, because it sounded like he said “no bed’s big enough.” I turned down the noise in my brain so I didn’t wonder about it too long, and I finally drifted to sleep, my hand on the cat’s-eye bead at my throat.
Ringo still wasn’t wild about the idea of a spiral in his flat, so the three of us made our way back down to the London Bridge after dark. I wasn’t concerned about getting the exact day and minute right on this Clock, because it was the actions on the platform I needed to hold in my brain.
Tom, Ringo, and I had hashed out the incidents of that night in as much detail as each of us could remember. It was pretty fascinating to dissect the whole thing as if it was a scene in a movie we’d all watched but had interpreted slightly differently.
Tom’s recall of the night had been quite different at first, colored as it was by his anger and the hatred he felt for the whole Walters family. The memories that Ringo and I had were more similar, but there were still differences in what our brains put emphasis on. The thing that was clearest in my mind was landing in the bishop’s attic and realizing that Archer wasn’t behind us. The thing Ringo remembered best was the moment he shoved Tom through the spiral. The thing neither of us could completely recreate was what happened right after that. Both of us had been focused on Tom, so we hadn’t seen how George Walters got the gun from Archer, or how Archer moved right before Walters shot him.
