The Loved and the Lost

by Lory Kaufman

  “Scusa Signor, scusa,” one of the boys giggled. The boys and man got up. The children disappeared into the crowd and the man dusted himself off, all the while chuckling. As his hand passed over his belt he looked up startled.

  “You little thieves. You stole my purse. Hey, they stole my purse!” he shouted, though nobody in the market gave him any notice. He ran off in the direction the children had disappeared.

  “Happens all the time,” Shamira said.

  “The little rapscallions,” Kingsley laughed. They started walking, hand in hand. “Shamira, you’re so lucky to have lived here for, what, six whole months? All the art and colorful characters. It must really show up in your painting. That’s what I’m hoping time travel will do for me. Inspire my sculpture.”

  “Thinking I was trapped here for the rest of my life did change my perception, and therefore my art, I guess,” Shamira said. “But it’s not as romantic as you think. Those kids, for instance. Probably three out of five of their brothers and sisters didn’t make it till age five. They’re all illiterate and dirty. Much of the time they’re hungry.”

  “But since that’s the only life they know,” Kingsley answered, “they don’t know they’re missing anything.”

  A wry smile came to her lips. “And you think my attitude is provincial?”

  “What do you mean?” Kingsley asked.

  Shamira looked at him through veiled eyes, a small smile on her face. “No,” she finally said. “If I have to learn some things on my own, so can you.”

  “How cruel,” he replied playfully. “How delightfully callous. But seriously, don’t you think the worlds we live in are so safe that they’re actually boring?”

  “Oh, finding your life boring lately, are you?”

  “A bit. Till you came along. But you know what I mean. Is there anything about this place you miss?”

  They were passing a butcher’s stall. There was one of Master Spagnoli’s sons beheading and gutting chickens. Shamira smiled deviously to herself and stopped. She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse.

  “See the scar here? I wasn’t here a day when, right in this market, I was robbed and stabbed. So, it’s not all the fun you think.” She was setting him up but good. “But, yes,” she said, looking around, “I actually do miss some things. Coming to the market everyday with Guilietta and shopping. And the people and these surroundings are colorful. I’ll grant you that. I even miss the smell of the place.”

  “That’s my point. Our worlds are so sanitized and homogenous,” Kingsley said.

  “Yeah. I guess you’re right. You know, seeing all this makes me want to . . . get the smell of the place in my nose. They say the sense of smell evokes memories the most.”

  “But smell is one of the things we can’t sense when we’re out of phase.”

  “That is too bad. Hey, maybe I’ll push my node and go native . . . just for a few moments.”

  “But Arimus said we couldn’t, except for emergencies.”

  “You’re right. Darn. Well, how about if I just open up a hole, a small opening that nobody here will see?”

  Kingsley searched his mind for the “how-to memory” that came with any new node. “Oh, yeah, I have it. But Arimus said not to.”

  Shamira looked mockingly at Kingsley. “And here I thought you were adventurous. Don’t you know that girls find boys who act a little dangerous, attractive? Twenty-fourth century girls, anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, you might be chicken to do this, but I say, what the heck.” And with that she pressed one of the nodes at the base of her neck gently, four times quickly in succession. She held up her index finger and the tip of it began radiating a soft, pink glow. Then she drew a small circle in the air, which glowed pink for a second. There was a popping sound, like air rushing into a vacuum. The apprentice butcher seemed to hear it and looked over. Shamira quickly withdrew her hand and he went back to his work. He took the bowl of chicken guts he had just filled and dumped it into the barrel where Shamira was standing. Hundreds of flies rose and buzzed around. Shamira looked mischievously at Kingsley, raised her eyebrows and stuck her nose into the hole. As the tip of it came fully into the 14th-century, it too glowed pink for a second.

  “Ah, Verona,” Shamira pronounced as she took a deep breath. “I’d almost forgotten your sweet smells.” The butcher looked over again, like he heard something odd, and Shamira pulled back. The man shrugged and went back to cutting off the head of another chicken and threw it in the barrel. “You going to try?” Shamira asked Kingsley.

  “That fellow almost saw you.”

  “Well, okay then,” she said. “If you’re . . . chicken. I thought you really wanted to experience everything . . . to help your art.” She stared challengingly at him, in the way only a young woman can challenge a young man. “I’ll close up the portal . . .”

  “No, wait a minute. I’ll give it a try.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t . . .”

  “I want to.”

  “Well, okay then.” She stood back and watched, poker-faced. She saw Kingsley tentatively come close to the portal, stare down at the barrel of guts, heads, wriggling maggots and buzzing flies, and at the butcher, who was now fiercely plucking feathers off the newly gutted bird. “Take a really deep breath,” Shamira encouraged.

  Kingsley stuck his nose and mouth through the hole. They shimmered pink and he sucked in a mighty breath. He froze, mid-inhalation. His eyes bulged and his look froze with surprise as the unfamiliar and exceeding foul smell of the butcher’s stall blasted into his nose, lungs and eyes. He then involuntarily gasped another noxious inhalation. His eyes began watering, he wheezed and a 14th-century fly flew in his mouth. He gagged and spit the thing out.

  Shamira doubled over laughing.

  “Why you little . . .” Kingsley managed to choke out.

  The butcher looked over just as Shamira snapped her fingers and the hole closed.

  “Maybe that will inspire your sculpture,” and she took off running down the square.

  Kingsley chased after her, still gagging but laughing too.

  Chapter 6

  Lincoln continued to saunter through the town, walking slowly and staring at Medeea beside him. The shimmering blue corona around her body lit up her sharp, fine features and glistened off her jet black hair, while her light blue toga, draped over her shoulders, small breasts and hips, outlined a perfect young body. And as she walked, her legs caused the knee-length draping to billow forward and fall back against her thighs. This gave the intermittent suggestion of a limber form underneath.

  “You remember I know what you’re looking at and thinking, don’t you?” Medeea asked.

  “Yes, and I guess I really don’t care anymore,” Lincoln said, “or that, at least, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “That’s good. You’ve adapted quickly. But you also realize I’m not really walking beside you. I’m in your head and in that bottle in your pocket.”

  “Yes, I know that too.”

  “And you still don’t care?”

  “Nah. I figure I’ll just go with it. And don’t forget, I can read what you’re thinking too. You like flirting and playing. And what’s the harm? The worst case scenario is I’ll learn something about girls.”

  “But I’m not a girl,” she laughed, “or at least, not a flesh and blood one.”

  “You want to be.”

  “Wow, you really are a born mind-delver. There are not many who could straight off move around in another delver’s consciousness without them knowing it, or cope with having another personality over-layered in their brain. Often, beginners get the two personalities mixed up and lose themselves.”

  “Who would have thought that my stubbornness would become an asset? I’m so happy I’m good at this.”

  “On the other hand, don’t get ahead of yourself. This isn’t hard mind-delving, Lincoln. This is just me, who can help keep our psyches separate. But when you have someone else in your mind
, someone who doesn’t know you’re in their head, their ego will instinctively try to take yours over.”

  “Yeah, that was part of one of the lectures I was at. But I hadn’t appreciated the implications.”

  “That’s what field excursions are for.”

  “Have you ever had a student who you thought would do well, but didn’t?”

  “Oh yes. Often. But it’s not worth worrying about. You’ll either be able to do it or you won’t.”

  “Hmmm. Bummer. Do you think Ugilino is a good first choice to try this on?”

  “From what I saw of, what did you call him, the Ug-miester? It looks like he’s been through the wars. I scanned his eyes and he’s living with multiple, long-term concussions and even survived a bout of meningitis. He must have one incredibly strong immune system. If you can delve him, you’ll be able to delve anybody. But be prepared to feel what he feels physically as well as emotionally. Ah, we’re almost there. It’s just around this corner. Ready?”

  “How’d you know where to find The Stinking Fish Tavern?”

  “Hey, I can move around in your head without you knowing it too. I can access anything in that cute little noggin of yours. Boy, oh boy. This place really is a dump,” she said as they arrived at their destination.

  To call The Stinking Fish a “tavern” would be overstating it, even by 14th-century standards. It was really just a narrow space between two buildings, with a thatched roof and rotten wood walls at each end. The door was a single plank with leather hinges and no latch. There wasn’t even a sign with words. Some previous owner had just painted a crude drawing of a fish skeleton above the door, and that must have been years earlier as it was mostly faded.

  “I’ve never been inside,” Lincoln said. “But why would he be there now? By this time of day, we’d all be working.”

  “It doesn’t look like a Sabbath or feast day,” Medeea said. “And we’re not sure of the new date Arimus just took us to. But he said this is where our boy is. Come on. Let’s pay him a visit.”

  Now Lincoln experienced another odd sensation. Medeea reached out and took his hand. Although he knew it was all in his head, he felt his fingers entwining with a girl’s warm, smooth ones. It gave his whole body a thrill. He felt the warm dampness of her palm and, before he knew it, he felt his arm, and the rest of him, being pulled through the wall of the makeshift pub.

  As Lincoln went from a bright summer day to the dark recesses of The Stinking Fish, it took time for his eyes to adjust. Then he heard a familiar snore, and then a fart.

  “Ugilino,” he announced. He squinted and finally saw him. Ugilino was passed out, sitting on the dirt floor, his back against the wall. His whole body was tilted precariously toward the floor, his head and neck stretched, his mouth agape. Drool had dried and crusted against his cheek. This made the only clean place on his face.

  “I always wondered where Ugilino went at night,” Lincoln commented. “But he’d always show up fresh at sunrise.”

  “It’s well past sunrise now,” Medeea said.

  “And you’ve no idea what day we’ve been brought to?” Lincoln asked. Medeea shrugged.

  The rough wooden door to the tavern opened and light flooded in. Lincoln squinted and so did Ugilino, though he only stopped snoring momentarily. He shuffled his body against the wall, a sleeper trying to get comfortable. He managed only to fall the rest of the way to the floor, his face now resting on his arm as a pillow.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s still here,” a rough female voice said. She was a tall, buxom woman, square and strong-looking. She lifted her skirt and picked her way across a floor strewn with tankards, discarded ceramic bottles and the remnants of food. “Look at all this garbage to throw on the heap,” she said to no one in particular. Then, standing over and peering down at Ugilino, she added, “And here’s the biggest bit to toss. C’mon, my ugly amore, wake up.” Ugilino just lay there, snoring. “Mio amore, wake up,” she said more forcefully. The woman didn’t look malevolent, but neither did she look like one to be pushed around. She nudged Ugilino with her foot. He stirred, but only managed another long, whining fart. The tavern keeper’s face wrinkled. “Hey!” she shouted, giving the sleeper’s head a nudge with her foot. “Go somewhere else and do that! Hey! Get up!” Now she kicked the arm out from under his head and his cheek fell into the dirt. “UGILINO,” she shouted, “TIME TO GO!”

  “Wha?” he groaned, struggling to lift his head and open his eyes.

  “You drank too much. Time to go. Now! Rapidamente!”

  “Gimme another drink,” he croaked, holding his head with one hand while trying to lift himself with the other.

  “I said leave, you asino,” she said loudly. “You’ve got no more credit. You drank all I gave you for the goods you brung . . .” and then she spoke softly, in case someone would hear. “I just came from pawning it. Didn’t get as much as . . .”

  Just then Ugilino’s bloodshot eyes went wide, darting about. “It’s day?”

  “Way past sunup. You’re usually back home by now. Your master . . .”

  That really got Ugilino moving, or at least trying to. “The Master, the Father . . .” He struggled to his knees and grimaced in excruciating pain. His body folded into a kneeling fetal position. “Ohi! I need a drink. Per favore, Signora, per favore.” He began rocking back and forth, his head buried in his arms.

  “If it will get you outta here.” The tavern keeper went to a table and peered into a jumble of ceramic and wooden mugs, and then poured the grim and varied remnants of each into one large cup. She went to pick it up when Ugilino suddenly started to weep in an uncharacteristically high, pathetic voice.

  “Oh, the Father, the Father, the Father. The Holy Father,” he lamented, continuing to rock.

  Incensed, the woman forgot the cup and stepped back toward Ugilino, scolding him.

  “I wouldn’t be worryin’ about forgiveness from God right now, my boy. Worry that your master forgives you.”

  “No, not God,” Ugilino whined in a high, tremulous cry. “Father Aaron. He’s dead! He’s dead!”

  “Oh, mercy, I heard about that in the market today,” the woman said, crossing herself. “Robbed, killed and eaten by wolves. He’s being buried today.”

  “Dear Gia,” Lincoln said. “That’s what day it is. I always wondered why Ugilino didn’t make it to the funeral. He was here, drunk.”

  “He never wanted nothin’ from me,” Ugi wailed. “He said he loved me,” and he rocked and moaned and rocked, his snot-smeared face buried in the dirt.

  “Lincoln, I don’t know if mind-delving Ugi in this state is a good idea for a beginner,” Medeea said. “It could be dangerous.”

  Lincoln watched Ugilino weep, his body wracked with heaving sobs.

  “No, I want to,” Lincoln answered. “Like you said, I’ll either be able to do it or won’t. No use wasting time not knowing.”

  “There’s the impulsiveness that got you into so much trouble,” Medeea said. Then she laughed. “But if it’s bad, I guess I can break your link with him.”

  “But not right away,” Lincoln insisted. “I survived a battle where men were blown to bits with cannons and hacked to death. Even if it’s hard, give me a chance to deal with it. How can we get into him?”

  “Quickly. Put some of me in that wine glass.”

  “I saw his poor body in the cathedral last night,” Ugilino moaned from his prone position. “What was left, it was all maggoty.” Now tears squirted from his eyes and it seemed his words had to squeeze past his blubbering lips. “They fit his leavings in a little stone box and they’re buryin’ it at San Zeno . . . an I’m missin’ it,” he wailed, and covered his head with his hands.

  “Oh, my poor little duck,” the woman said with uncommon sympathy. “Here, I’ll get your drink.” Ugilino grabbed her leg and held tight.

  “He said he loved me,” he cried pitifully.

  “Hurry,” Medeea urged.

  The knowledge Lincoln needed instantly flo
oded from his implant to his consciousness. He tapped his node four times, thought what he wanted and his index finger started to glow pink. He bent over the cup, looked to make sure the woman or Ugi wasn’t looking, and drew a circle over the mug. It glowed for a second, subsided, and a portal into the 14th-century was established.

  “Let go of my leg and I’ll get your drink,” the woman scolded.

  “Quickly. Pour me in,” Medeea urged.

  Lincoln fumbled for the vessel of tears, pulled off the stopper and quickly tipped the small bottle as he put it through the portal. Half a dozen drops, more than needed, splashed into the cup. He pulled his hand back just as the woman turned to see what made the sound. He snapped his fingers and the portal vanished.

  There were still ripples in the cup when the tavern keeper peered in. She frowned and looked up to see if a bird or bat had defecated from the ceiling, a not-uncommon occurrence.

  “Dear Gia, this wine is foul” Medeea winced. “Five different types, saliva and mucus. Blachhhh!”

  The tavern keeper brought Ugi the cup.

  “Here ya go, mio amore. Drink to the good friar. He’s among the priests I’ve not heard a single bad word about.”

  Ugilino could barely force himself to sit up. When he seemed to find his balance he took the mug and stared at the woman with soulful eyes. “He . . .” Ugilino’s hand quivered uncontrollably. Liquid flew from the vessel.

  “There goes some of me,” Medeea said.

  The woman grabbed the cup and steadied it. “Drink up, mio amore. A nail to drive out a nail,” she quoted local wisdom.

  Ugilino brought the cup to his lips and slurped it down, some of it slopping onto his cheeks.

  “Is that you too?” Lincoln asked with concern.

  “The liquid on the cheeks is okay. My nano bits are just a few atoms big. I can make my way through his skin.”

  “How about the stuff on the floor?”

  “Just like a person is made up of trillions of cells, I’m made up of trillions of nano bits. I can stand to lose a few million. I automatically reproduce replacements.”