by Kim Falconer
The room was lined with buffets and hutches holding china, wineglasses and silverware. Kreshkali let her fingers glide over the patterned dishes, her tattooed hands delicately counting cups and saucers.
She checked the other rooms. There was a parlour with decadent sofas and cushions, a huge stone fireplace, and a refreshment room with basins and toilet.
‘Plumbing!’ she shouted over the sound of the flush. ‘We have plumbing, Rowan.’
I don’t know what your obsession is with such conveniences, but I’m glad you’re happy. He sent the message directly to her mind.
I’m not happy, Rowan. I’m ecstatic!
She found an open room with a raised stage fitted with chairs and music stands and sound equipment, and a room with tiered seating—a lecture hall, perhaps. She breezed in and out of them all, her heart quickening.
She arrived at the end of the hall to find the double doors ajar. She inhaled deeply, her fingers twitching. She heard the faint rise and fall of breath not her own, and the displacement of energy created by a familiar presence. She knew this scent—Lupin through and through. Her shoulders relaxed, and a spontaneous smile lifted her face. She pushed the doors wide and entered, searching him out. The Lupin greeted her with a smile of his own, arms stretched wide, gesturing for her to take in the expanse.
‘The library!’ she said, turning full circle.
‘Did you guess it would be this grand?’ he asked, his voice like silk over bare skin.
She resisted the urge to lock eyes immediately, turning her attention to the room instead. She took her time, absorbing the features as she might a work of art. The place was enormous, lined with bookshelves two storeys high, packed tight with tomes. Stairs led up to the second level and a railed walkway ran around its circumference, little tables and chairs set up in each corner for study. Light filtered through the stained-glass ceiling, casting a rose, blue and emerald tint over the carpet. Broad wooden tables and chairs filled the centre of the room, some with quiescent computer monitors and consoles, and others with books, notes and calculation devices.
‘It’s impressive, Hotha,’ she answered, finally allowing her eyes to rest on the Lupin. ‘More than I dreamed of.’
‘Indeed.’
He sat at the far end of the table, filling a high-backed chair. She had recognised him immediately by his posture more than anything, though his stunning looks and rich forest scent were unmistakable identifiers as well. Hotha had a regal quality that set him apart. Man or wolf, he was exquisite in either form—superb physique, dark eyes, sculptured jaw, jet black hair, dazzling smile.
He returned her gaze unblinking. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said.
‘You didn’t come in the front door.’
‘Your horses aren’t accustomed to us. I thought I would spare them the fright.’
‘And I thought it was An’ Lawrence you avoided.’ She chuckled.
‘The man holds a grudge.’
‘Not without reason. I think it best you two keep your distance, for now.’
Kreshkali crossed the room and he stood, bending to kiss her—one cheek, the other, and then her lips.
He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit. ‘Straight to business?’
‘Hotha, we need to discuss the future.’
‘Which future?’ he asked, his eyes dancing.
Heat rose up her spine. ‘That’s an interesting question.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Are you saying you’ve glimpsed more than one?’
‘I have.’
‘Please tell me you aren’t playing with time.’
‘It’s anybody’s game, my queen.’
‘True, if you know the rules.’
‘That’s just it. I don’t think there are any.’
She crossed her arms, her fingers tapping her biceps. ‘I’m listening.’
‘It happened quite by accident.’
She laughed.
‘You’re right, not by accident. Let me start again. The portal made an odd turn. For a moment, it was visible, clear as a summer’s day.’
‘What was visible, Hotha?’
‘The symmetry of time. I saw it flowing both ways.’
Kreshkali stood. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Hotha’s smile deepened.
‘Time symmetry?’ she whispered. ‘You actually perceived it?’
He nodded.
‘Tell me more.’
‘I’ll do my best. Thinking about time moving in both directions is disturbing. I can’t quite grasp it myself.’
‘That’s because everything we observe in nature reinforces an asymmetrical motion to our universe. Things happen in a first, then, finally order, all moving from low entropy states to ever increasingly disordered ones, all moving forward.’
‘Am I telling this, or are you?’ Hotha asked.
‘You are. Please continue.’
‘You’d think it was like that, Kali—time moving only forward, only one way.’ He lifted his finger. ‘But it’s not. The twentieth-century physicists were right. Time flows in both directions, and it is observable outside of closed systems.’
‘You mean, outside our universe?’
He nodded. ‘You can see it from the corridors if two opposing universes are lined up next to each other.’
Kreshkali sat down.
‘I know. It’s unnerving,’ he went on. ‘And what looks like reverse order to us is an ordinary, natural flow to them. It’s a counter unfolding of time—finally, then, first, and nobody seems to notice. I suspect that’s what creates symmetry within the whole.’
‘I suspect so too.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘Who’s them, Hotha?’
‘Parallel worlds maybe? I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.’
‘So time is symmetrical,’ she said again. ‘It flows both ways…’
‘It does, but we are only in one stream, so we see only our half, an asymmetrical aspect. It’s the same with them, I’ll wager, but when the universes are viewed side by side, when they become comparable, the distinction is made.’
‘Distinction between what?’
‘Asymmetrical and symmetrical time—forward-moving and backward-moving time.’ His face lit up. ‘It was incredible. Our past is their future, their future our past.’
‘But any comparison is meant to be hypothetical. There is no way to bridge the counter universes. The portals between them, between the symmetries, are closed.’
‘Not completely.’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t look so scared. It was only a peek, a one-off experience. I doubt there can be actual travel between the time symmetries.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘It would likely drive someone mad if they tried. There’s no preparing for such a journey.’
‘Did anyone else notice this glimpse of yours?’
‘Only me.’ He laced her fingers in his. ‘Kali…’
‘How many Lupins came with you?’ she interrupted.
‘Two more clans, though some will return to Gaela.’
‘I can understand why. Earth is hardly a holiday destination.’
He raised her hand to his lips, brushing her knuckles as he whispered, ‘I need to see you, Kreshkali.’
She retrieved her hand. ‘We don’t want to make matters worse.’
He leaned closer. ‘You and I are the only ones that can bring this temple to life. We have to work together.’ He waited for a moment, and when she didn’t speak he sat back, relaxing into the chair. ‘So how is he?’
‘An’ Lawrence?’ She laughed. ‘As you say, he holds a grudge.’
‘As does his minx.’
‘Scylla does hate you.’
Hotha cringed. ‘Perhaps an emissary will be best for now. I don’t know if I can see you like this without…seeing more of you.’
She looked away, letting her eyes scan the books above her. ‘What do you have in mind?’ she asked, turning back to him, her face expressionless.
‘A young lad. Nose in the books and no great love
of battle, though fierce when need be.’
‘Quick mind?’
‘Spring-loaded—obsessed with word puzzles.’
‘Crosswords?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Sounds like a Virgo moon.’
‘The sign of Ceres? Good guess.’
‘I never guess my astrology, Hotha. Sun sign?’
‘The Sea-goat.’
‘Capricorn? Perfect—practical, sensual, steady and ambitious. Hardworking. What’s his name?’
‘Teg.’
‘Teg? Meaning sheep?’
‘It describes his quiet disposition, not any lack of initiative.’
‘Send him. He can start training with the Sword Master’s students when we get things under way here, and if he can handle it, and I like him, I’ll take him on.’ She spun around at the sound of footsteps. An’ Lawrence stood in the doorway, his eyes flashing. ‘Rowan!’ She shot a look back to Hotha, but he’d gone. The chair was empty, only the sweet scent of forest loam left behind.
‘Talking to yourself, Kali? Or weaving a spell?’
She got up, her chair scooting over the floor. ‘Did you find the kitchen?’ she asked, smoothing her dress over her hips. She made a show of flipping through the pages of a book on the table.
‘I did, and it’s quite marvellous! Stocked full—dried fruits, pastas, rice, honey, tins of beans and tomatoes and relish and boxes of seeds for planting. A crazy amount of herbs. Not a moth or worm or broken seal in the lot. I’ve got pasta simmering, if you’re interested.’ He smiled as he moved towards her. ‘And I see you have found the library. Is that what has you on edge?’
She closed the book. ‘It does. Now the real search begins.’ Kreshkali waved towards the shelves as if to begin immediately, but her mind was on Hotha and his discovery. Access to symmetrical time? The seemingly backward unfolding of events from death to life to birth? How can it be? The portals are meant to keep such paradoxes apart…‘To the kitchen,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I can smell the garlic from here.’
EARTH—TIME: BACKWARD
CHAPTER 2
Everett stared at the walls. They were old, but not as old as he was. The plaster, like the skin over his bones, had been scraped smooth, reapplied and smoothed again so many times there was little trace of the original. The finished look never reclaimed his youthful vigour, nor the wall’s, but it covered the cracks with a thick, rough texture. Behind the skin was Everett. What stood behind the walls, he didn’t know.
Until recently his longevity had seemed like an attribute, a medal of achievement, but not any more. Things had changed. New cracks had appeared. He followed one now as it meandered through the pale green plaster. It stopped just short of the clock. He took a moment, letting his eyes adjust, waiting for the second hand to catch up. He cleared his throat.
‘Time of death, 1.05 p.m.’
The room was silent save for the drone of the heart monitor, a flat blue line running across the black screen. Someone took the paddles out of his hands and flipped off the switch. Stunned faces edged his peripheral vision, mouths open, brows creased. A dam of questions would burst and he was the only one with answers. They’d need his direction and he had to give it to them, but his mind felt frozen, his body numb. How could she be dead?
He took off his glasses and pinched the furrow between his eyes. It made no sense. He polished the lenses with the corner of his scrub shirt and replaced them, bringing the room back into focus. There was no way to explain a death. What would he say?
The edge of the metal table captured his attention, making it impossible to look elsewhere. He studied it, pulling off his gloves and letting them fall to the floor. Like robots, his staff started to animate, moving in slow motion, turning off monitors, clamping drip sets, folding up instrument packs, but no one turned away. Like him, they were transfixed by this dead woman. As he perspired under the lights, the subtle activity around him blurred. It felt like time was slowing down. If only it would reverse so he could make sense of this disaster, change it even. He clenched his fists until his knuckles were white, and opened them. His hands became flaccid, his jaw slack.
‘Dr Kelly?’
He heard the question but didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. His eyes shifted from the edge of the table to the wrist that lay upon it. Her hand was like a lotus flower, white fingers curled, red-painted nails pointing towards him. He closed his eyes.
‘Dr Kelly?’
His student was next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He flinched at the touch, pulling away.
‘What do we do, Dr Kelly?’
Sound poured into the room as the doors swung open. Outside, in the halls of the emergency ward, the clatter, shouts and demands of the other rooms rushed in. The press couldn’t be here already, could they? How would he handle that? He couldn’t think.
‘I don’t know the procedure,’ his student said, blinking as if trying to awake from a dream.
The student was too close. ‘No one knows the procedure.’ Everett drew further away from the table, away from his student and staff, away from the dead woman. He had to get out. He had to think. He strode to the double doors and pushed through, ignoring the curious faces and questions that followed him. He hunched his shoulders and kept moving.
‘Dr Kelly?’ The student dogged him. ‘Dr Kelly, the procedure? We can’t just leave her like that.’
Everett spun around. ‘Use your initiative,’ he said. He stared at the younger man, disregarding the orderlies who were leading a manacled woman past, one on either side so that her feet barely touched the ground. He paid no attention to the shouts for help as gurneys followed, swerving to avoid him. There must have been an event in the secure unit. He could slip away in the confusion. The press were here for that catastrophe, not his own—not the death. They didn’t know yet. Good. He still had time. ‘The procedure’s in the manual,’ Everett said, releasing his student’s eyes.
‘But where…’
He walked away, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Look it up.’
Was running the procedure so far beyond their comprehension? He understood how that could be, but a nurse would eventually search the manual, find the correct protocols and perform them. They wouldn’t have any death kits in the storerooms—they hadn’t been stocked in decades—but they were an industrious crew, his team. They’d improvise. While they did, he could get away and think this through.
What Labs would make of a death he couldn’t imagine. They’d be calling him soon, requesting an explanation, demanding his presence too, no doubt. That would be a breeze compared to the debacle awaiting him when Admin got word of it. And then there was the press. He looked over his shoulder. A few of them had paused by the open doors, their hungry eyes staring in at his patient’s hand, those fine, curled fingers pointing towards the ceiling. They may not know death when they saw it, but they could read faces. It would be obvious something had gone very wrong in that trauma room. How was he to explain it?
He heard his name called again, but he blocked the voice out. He’d had years of practice creating that wall in his mind, a barricade against all thoughts and questions arrowed towards him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and ploughed on, quickening his pace. It wasn’t far to his office, just a few more turns. He’d be in his sanctuary soon. He’d sort this out.
He didn’t blame his staff for their questions or their helplessness. Naturally they would feel disoriented and confused. He certainly did. None of these people had seen a death before—they were too young. It would take them some time to assimilate the strange event, categorising the symptoms, treatment, prognosis and outcome. Doing the procedure without him would help them adjust. It would help them reconcile their minds to the experience. He needed to leave them to it. He had his own adjustments to make. Or was that just an excuse? Maybe he was running scared. So many thoughts were struggling to surface; he felt like something important was being drowned out.
What was he forgetting? It was a vi
tal bit of information—but he couldn’t find it anywhere in his mind. Like when looking for lost keys, the more he searched, the more frantic he became. He couldn’t fit these pieces together. He rubbed the back of his neck. His thoughts continued to swirl, like butterflies, unable to alight anywhere, not for long, not for more than a fraction of a second. The most persistent queries jolted him like needles: sharp, searing, relentless. What have I done? Could I have stopped it? Should I have stopped it? What is it I can’t remember?
Those were only on the surface. Underneath was the question that had been pushing against his waking life and his dreamscapes ever since the patient was brought in. The question that was there waiting for him every morning when his alarm went off. It ate at his thoughts as he gulped down his coffee and raced off to work. It persisted through the day, lurking behind every task he performed, every lecture he gave, every patient he treated, every transplant he supervised. It haunted his words, infiltrating his voice whether he spoke truth or lies. It followed him to his bed at night and stood vigil over his sleep. The all-prevailing question that teased him, obsessed him, filled him with confusion, longing and desire—who was she? He didn’t even know her name. Or was that what he had forgotten? Had he known it once?
He raked his hands through his hair, grabbing his stethoscope as it slipped from around his neck. The question had irrevocably changed now that she was dead, the answer beyond reach. The knowledge of whoever she had been vanished with her—a library burned to the ground. The strange thing was that this unique event, unprecedented in his life, felt familiar, as if it had happened before. It was like a dream he was certain he’d had but couldn’t remember. What was the word for that? Déjà vu? He laughed. Ridiculous. There must be a plausible explanation and he had to find it soon. Or make one up. Admin would need an explanation. A credible one.
As he rounded the last corner, an officer stepped into his path, blocking his way. Tall, armed and frowning, she filled his vision, prohibiting escape. ‘I need to speak with her, Dr Kelly. I’ve waited long enough.’
He looked up into the woman’s eyes, keeping his face a mask, forcing his mind to be still. ‘Whom do you need to speak with?’
