Arrows of Time

by Kim Falconer

  Art in the Ancient World—the Collected Works.

  He re-read his handwritten notes before opening the book. Jane Doe’s skeletal scan placed her at no more than thirty years old. She couldn’t have a physiology susceptible to heart conditions, unless she wasn’t human, or was much older than her bones. Or from somewhere else. Where else could there be? He was getting nowhere down that path. He folded his notes and put them in his pocket.

  What she did have was body art, and that might tell him something about where she was from and who she was. The thought made him shiver. It may not be a question of pathology as much as species, or even time. He wasn’t sure which possibility frightened him the most.

  He checked the table of contents. Running his finger down the chapter headings, he stopped at number eighteen, The Art of Tattooing. He flipped forward and found drawings of island cultures, people with abstract tattoos, dark curved lines covering half the face and decorating buttocks and limbs. He adjusted his glasses, chastising himself for missing his laser treatment. The print was small. He squinted, pulled the text closer and read.

  The art of tattooing was traditionally practised by many cultures for hundreds of generations. Performed on both men and women and sometimes animals, but rarely children, tattooing could indicate honour, rank, collective worth and, in some cases, punishment or identification—i.e. pirates or slaves. In other cases it was reserved for those of revered standing, high achievement within the family, clan or culture, or for those involved in spiritual initiations (see Art and Shamanism pp. 689-702). Some tattoos were thought to contain magic spells and were worn only by adepts or spiritual guides. In other societies, the tattoos were believed to bring the individual closer to the divinity or their source—to higher consciousness.

  He coughed. Nonsense.

  What she wore certainly didn’t look like a punishment. He guessed it was more the latter—an image for an adept or spiritual guide. It was too beautiful, and too potent, to be derogatory or simply identifying. He continued reading but could find nothing in the text about ASSIST and their campaign against all forms of such practices in the twenty-second and twenty-third centuries, nor the consequences of contravening the bans.

  My, how they had changed the history. He’d read a speculative theory about small resistance groups that had managed to code dermal art into the DNA, but there’d never been any proof. Those resistance groups were long gone and the ‘artists’ with them.

  He scooted his chair closer to the table. So much had been omitted from these records that it made him doubt the validity of what was left in. Still he read on, scrutinising the images and colour plates. They were fascinating, and he wondered how such creativity could be feared, abolished. Whatever the reason, it had lasting effects. No such creative spirit had survived to his day—nothing close.

  He turned through page after page, but none of the plates matched what he’d found embedded in the flesh over his patient’s heart. No winged lions with eagle claws, looking as if carved out of jewelled stone. He kept on, losing himself in the designs, until the last page of the chapter came into focus.

  He stopped, drawing in his breath. His forehead wrinkled as he stared at the image, his hands shaking. He shoved them into his lab coat pockets, as if hiding them would help, and leaned closer to the book. There it was, right in front of him—a winged lion with a woman, a deity of some sort, riding upon its back. The image was scanned from a photo of the actual monument dated third century BCE. ‘Five thousand years ago…’ he whispered. There was an inscription, a translation, if it could be considered accurate:

  If you open not the gate that I may pass,

  I shall break the lock,

  The door’s steps will shatter, and the pillars.

  And the dead will outnumber the living.

  He stared at the words for a long time before scanning the page and sending the image to his personal database. Closing the book, he replaced it on the top shelf among the other antique volumes, his palms clammy. He turned off the desk lamp and polished his glasses, careful not to glance at the security camera pointing his way, careful to hide his fear.

  ‘The dead will outnumber the living, will they, my dear Jane Doe?’ he whispered, his voice melodic. ‘How could you know such a thing?’ He slipped his glasses back on. ‘I think it’s time I woke you up.’

  He left the library and headed towards the intensive care ward.

  EARTH & GAELA—TIME: FORWARD

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘Did you see that?’

  An’ Lawrence tilted his head. ‘See what?’ he asked.

  ‘How could you miss it?’ Kreshkali said. ‘Someone’s coming. Look at Scylla. She knows.’

  He searched the temple courtyard for his familiar. The place was like a beehive: people leading horses to and from the stables, others pushing wheelbarrows full of manure, bumping across the plaza towards the vegetable gardens and orchard. Wagons were being unloaded, aqueducts cleaned and repaired, fountains drained and scrubbed—even a few Lupins were hard at it. Some, he noticed, were training with his sword students; something he had thought he would never concede to, but so far it was working out.

  In a few months, they had turned the place into a functioning temple, bright, productive and engaging, an oasis in the red desert sea. But most important, the energy was optimistic, as if the spell that had preserved the estate was working its magic on the weary occupants, perhaps even himself. He shielded his eyes, following the line of the new road as it led out of the temple grounds over the rise and towards the wrought-iron gates, a half hour’s easy ride to the northeast. Scylla sat in the middle of the courtyard, ignoring the activity around her and staring towards those distant gates. ‘Scylla, what do you see, my beauty?’

  I can’t see anything, Rowan. The hill is in the way.

  He chuckled. ‘What do you sense?’

  Someone’s coming.

  ‘You mean someone new?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re at the gates,’ Kreshkali answered. The Three Sisters landed above her and began preening themselves and squawking. ‘I think a welcoming party is in order,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get the horses.’ Come on, Scylla. Let’s check this out.

  The feline responded by leaving her vigil and heading for the shade of a weeping willow. She bow-stretched and sharpened her claws on the trunk.

  ‘It’s just a walk, lovely, not a hunt.’

  The hunt, my dear Rowan, is everywhere, waiting to be revealed.

  He laughed, shaking his head when Kreshkali queried him. ‘Whoever’s coming, she’s not worried.’

  ‘Nor are they.’ She tilted her head towards the ravens.

  ‘Then I’d say it’s a friend, not a foe.’

  ‘All the more reason to greet them!’

  They rode to the gates at a leisurely jog, leaving the bustle of Temple Los Loma behind them.

  ‘Too much for you back there?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now that you’re in the saddle, Kreshkali, you don’t appear as eager to get to the gates. I hope this wasn’t an excuse to get away. I’ve students to train and horses to work. If it’s claustrophobia you have, I can suggest…’

  ‘Certainly not.’ She scratched her nose.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘All right, sometimes maybe. I can feel a bit hemmed in, but not today. There is someone coming, An’ Lawrence. I’m not making it up.’

  ‘If you were making it up, Kali, it would happen anyway.’ He mumbled the words to himself and then chuckled.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said, it’s good to be out in this lovely day.’

  She squinted at the sun. It was baking down on them, the heat saturating their light cotton clothing and making her face flush and skin prickle. The breeze was hot, dry and dusty. ‘Right.’ Easing her horse to a walk, she pinned him with her eyes.

  ‘And how are you coping?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said quickly.
r />   ‘The Lupins aren’t making you itch?’

  ‘It seems to be working out.’ His voice sounded rehearsed in his own mind. It was.

  ‘Hating it that much?’

  ‘Not hating per se.’ An’ Lawrence was wary of the ‘understanding’ between the Lupins and the resistance group, though he had given his word to participate openly, and that is what he would do. He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The truth is, I don’t trust them, and I don’t see why we need them here.’

  ‘It’s not about need, or what we see. It’s about what is authentic. This is their home. They were born here.’

  ‘You mean created.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘I think I liked it better when they were all underground.’

  ‘Give it time, Rowan. Give yourself time.’

  They rode on in silence until the top of the gate was visible, its wrought-iron spikes black against the red earth, bright apple tree leaves waving against them.

  ‘Is it Rosette and you’re not telling me? I hate surprises,’ An’ Lawrence said.

  ‘I know you do. It’s not her. She doesn’t even know where this place is. She left before we found it, remember?’ Kreshkali took a swig of water from the canteen and handed it to Rowan. ‘There’s been no contact, unless you’ve heard something.’ She frowned. ‘Have you heard something?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’d tell you if I had.’

  ‘It’s been quite some time with no word from Treeon.’

  ‘Rosette’s with Jarrod.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  An’ Lawrence paused for a moment as he watched Scylla lope ahead. ‘Ally or enemy?’ he asked her. ‘Can you tell?’

  Ally! A good ally. I like him!

  ‘Scylla says it’s a friend.’

  ‘Obviously not Lupin.’

  ‘Could only be Grayson.’

  ‘Is that what Scylla says?’

  ‘Just my best guess. Come on. Let’s greet them, whoever they are.’ He urged his horse into a lope, waving for Kreshkali to catch up.

  Grayson stood at the gates, examining the wrought-iron work, as the riders approached. They were coming down the lane at an easy lope, a temple cat in the lead. He soothed his mount, running his hand along her brilliantly coloured neck. She was golden in the sun, her ivory mane rippling. She was alternately spooking at the feline heading straight for them and nickering to the other horses, a welcoming sound. Her nostrils flared as she sidestepped; her saddlebags, full to the brim, slapped her flanks and agitated her further. Grayson recognised Scylla first, then Kreshkali and An’ Lawrence. He beamed them a smile, but his eyes went wide, looking past the two riders. Where were Rosette and Drayco? There was no sign of them.

  ‘She’s not here,’ Kreshkali said, pulling her horse to a halt and leaping to the ground. He dismounted as she closed the distance between them. He held her tight.

  ‘She’s still travelling with Jarrod?’ He said the words easily, but his shoulders were taut.

  ‘Seems that way.’ An’ Lawrence stepped up, clapping his arm around the man’s shoulders as they gripped each other’s wrists.

  ‘No word at all?’ Grayson asked.

  ‘Not a sound.’ Kreshkali whistled, crossing her arms in front of her as she examined his mount. ‘Where did you get her and can we keep her in the broodmare paddock?’

  Grayson chuckled. ‘I didn’t steal her, if that’s what you’re thinking, and yes, I thought you might like a foal from this one.’ He paused for a moment, staring at the apple trees on either side of the gate. ‘The mare comes from the same place as these,’ he said, picking a bright green fruit and polishing it on his shirt. The golden horse stepped forward and nickered, her muzzle working its way towards the treat. ‘These apples are from Treeon, right?’ He bit off a chunk and offered it to his horse.

  Kreshkali nodded. ‘Is that where Rosette was going to meet you?’

  ‘She said she’d be a few days at the most. It’s been six months. I stayed at the temple, making inks and gathering supplies—did a fair bit of work for the initiates too—and then Makee gave me this one.’ He pressed his shoulder into the mare. ‘Her idea of payment, and not a bad one. She helped me pack and sent me on my way.’

  An’ Lawrence ran his hand down the mare’s jowl, letting it rest lightly on the bit. He eased the horse’s mouth open and checked her teeth. ‘Where did Makee find her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Corsanon?’

  ‘This is an all-but-vanished breed.’ Kreshkali narrowed her eyes. ‘Makee didn’t follow you into the corridors, did she?’

  Grayson shook his head. ‘She knows she can’t, not without risking her life, or the portals’ integrity. I wouldn’t have been able to go through on my own without the altered DNA. Plus, I have Rosette’s blessing.’

  ‘She wove you a travelling spell, did she?’

  Grayson laughed. ‘She did.’

  Kreshkali patted his shoulder. ‘And it worked well, it got you here.’

  Grayson pushed his mare back from the apple tree. ‘How’d these grow so fast?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s one of the questions we’re considering right now,’ Kreshkali answered. ‘What’s even more curious is how they got here in the first place.’

  ‘You didn’t plant them?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s a mystery,’ An’ Lawrence said. He mounted up and motioned Grayson to follow. He watched the palomino’s gait as Grayson led her forward. ‘She’s a little light for open battle, but I bet she can cover the distance smartly.’

  ‘Fastest horse west of Morzone,’ Grayson said, stopping to tighten the girth.

  ‘We’ll have to test that claim,’ An’ Lawrence said. He noticed the packs. ‘I hope you brought plenty of ink.’

  ‘There’s work for me here?’

  Kreshkali snorted. ‘They’ll be queuing.’

  ‘They were in Treeon, too.’ He mounted up, An’ Lawrence closing the gates behind him. ‘I was hoping for a bit of a break and…’

  ‘No chance. You’ll be amazed at the designs people are drawing. Impressive.’ Kreshkali eyed him for a moment. ‘I have a new apprentice. His name’s Teg and he’s got something very special in mind.’

  Grayson shot her a glance. Her voice had softened, but she didn’t seem to notice. ‘So it’s straight to work?’ he asked.

  ‘Naturally.’

  Grayson cleared his throat. ‘And Rosette? You really have no idea where she is?’

  ‘With Jarrod. That’s all I know.’

  ‘You’re certain?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve had dreams. She was alone.’ Grayson looked behind at the greenery flanking the gates—the only leafy flora on the red horizon. ‘Are you sure there’s been no word?’ he asked, bending forward to offer his mount the apple core.

  Kreshkali watched the seeds fall from the mare’s mouth as she chewed around the bit. An’ Lawrence grumbled. It was a practice he didn’t approve—feeding horses with bits in their mouths.

  ‘The trees?’ she said.

  ‘Rosette loves those apples, always has one in her pocket. And these are definitely from Treeon.’

  Kreshkali considered. ‘It’s possible.’

  An’ Lawrence nodded. ‘Feels like something she would do.’

  ‘If so,’ said Kreshkali, narrowing her eyes, ‘she’s having quite a…time. They were here full grown when we arrived, three days after she left.’

  They turned their horses towards the southwest and headed back to the temple, Scylla again taking the lead. They rode at a leisurely pace, cresting the last hill at a jog before dropping down into the temple grounds. ‘It looks so different.’ Grayson stood up in his stirrups to get a better view. ‘I like what you’ve done to the place.’

  ‘Everyone’s put a lot into it.’

  ‘Has it got a name yet?’

  ‘It does.’ Kreshkali looked out over the estate. ‘Temple Los Loma.’

  ‘For the Lupins?’

&
nbsp; She nodded. ‘For all of us.’

  ‘And how’s that going?’

  ‘Fine,’ An’ Lawrence said before she could answer.

  Kreshkali chuckled. ‘You’re about to see for yourself. Here comes Teg.’

  Grayson watched the young man striding towards them. He didn’t look particularly Lupin, but he was very handsome—as most of that species were. He took Kreshkali’s reins when she dismounted, locking eyes with her. They had a silent exchange that left him smiling.

  ‘Sword Master,’ Teg said, dipping his head.

  An’ Lawrence gave him a curt nod.

  ‘This is Grayson.’ Kreshkali opened her arms towards the man as he dismounted.

  Teg’s hand went out, his wide eyes smiling. ‘I’ve been hoping to meet you. Will you be staying long?’

  ‘Long enough to do your work, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t…well, I did, but…thanks. That’s great news.’

  Grayson unstrapped the saddlebags and hoisted them over his shoulder. ‘Where can I camp?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve cleared you a space in the workshops, but don’t go there yet. Come have a meal with us first. I want news of Treeon. News of Makee.’ Kreshkali turned him away from the row of artists’ studios in the building opposite the main manor.

  ‘We’ve got some things to discuss,’ An’ Lawrence added, lowering his voice. ‘In private.’

  Teg reached for the Sword Master’s reins, a question on his face.