Green Jay and Crow

by D. J. Daniels

  I wander for a bit, realise that my notions of where I left the box may not be entirely pinpoint accurate, but I manage to convince myself that I’ve narrowed the area down. I look for that fluffy grass, which now seems to be growing everywhere, but after a while of what to the untrained observer might look like mindless wandering, I find my original point of entry.

  And there, sitting happily on the grass as if nothing much has been going on, is the Time Locked box. My Time Locked box. And I don’t know if I love it or hate it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Green Jay

  THE PACKAGE WAS from T-Lily and not from Blue Jay as I had hoped. But it is almost as good. She has sent me some of the cloths that she uses. They are very light, like gauze, but infused with things I need. I am feeling lighter, less drugged; I think Blue Jay has asked her to help with that as well. He is clever, and so is she; but I must be careful not to let it show too much. I wonder if Rose-Q can tell. I’m not sure how sensitive she is, whether she must deliberately test for information or whether she can tell, at a touch, my biological state. If she can, she hasn’t said anything, and so we keep a secret, although it is one I must be careful not to expose.

  The box is hidden in a cupboard in my room. Or, I should say, the room that I am staying in. I would destroy the box if I could. But the tissue paper T-Lily wrapped the cloths in is more dangerous, and I’ve hidden it as far under the mattress as I am able. T-Lily had embossed a small lily on the corner of the paper. That is how I knew it was from her, that the cloths were safe. It is beautiful, too beautiful to destroy, but it would be immediately obvious who had been in contact with me if anyone found it. I wonder if I could safely eat it. And yet I do not.

  Rose-Q has been telling me a little about her people. They are strange, wonderful beings, and I would have liked to have met them before they came here, before they started copying humans. She told me that their form was different before they came, but when I asked her why they changed, she just smiled and shook her head. It is disconcerting, the shake, the way her head tentacles wave around, even for Rose-Q who has fewer tentacles than most. I think: this is something humans have taught them too, this body language, this shaking of the head. It makes me sad to think that they are so unlike their original selves, but then, I am hoping for the same thing, hoping to become more human. I cannot blame her for her desires.

  But I have one question, one I hope is not too invasive, too rude. I ask Rose-Q why her people did not go to the oceans, meet creatures of their kind. The whales and the dolphins, the squid. All as smart as people.

  “No,” says Rose-Q. “There is no technology there.”

  And so I learn what has drawn them. The human capacity for gadgets and things. No wonder they love the 3D printers. Though nobody has ever truly discovered how the Trocarn came here. That is their true name, at least true enough for this place. Better than ‘Tenties.’ There must have been some technology to get them here. Something far more wonderful than anything we have ever made.

  But Rose-Q sees my question, sits down and tells me a story. It is so strange that it is almost unbelievable. Perhaps it is a myth, the story of her people that holds a truth without being true. I listen as best I can and try to understand.

  Crow

  I SIT DOWN beside the box and feel for Ed’s gloves. They’re still in my back pocket, but I’m reluctant to put them on. The thought that I might be able to reconnect to the box and get the fuck back home keeps bobbing up. I mean, so far I haven’t done anything wrong, at least nothing that I can’t convince Guerra wasn’t really my fault. There’s no doubt that he’ll be wanting the box back. And yes, it means I’ll get involved in all that Mac/Eva shit again, but after all, that’s what friends are for. And, look at it this way, I’ve held up my end of the bargain, and the rest, whatever it may be, is up to them.

  But I don’t connect to the box. Instead I stretch out in the sun. My leg is shaking a little, if you must know. I pluck a tuft of grass fluff and stick it in my pocket as a memento. I hear singing in the distance, and it must be those prophets, but it’s a fair way away, and, in any case, they’re not the ones that pushed me down the stairs.

  Then my phone buzzes, which scares the shit out of me. I almost forgot I had it. My normal life is an endless sequence of buzzes, beeps and other salutations from the phone, but apparently I haven’t missed it. There, on the screen, is something that looks like one of those video stamp things people stick on parcels. QR code. At least, I think that’s what it is. It’s crap quality, grainy and strangely focussed. Whatever it is, my phone don’t recognise it. The message isn’t playing, the image is just sitting there on the phone without unspooling as it’s meant to do.

  I send a question mark as a reply. Just in case there’s more to it. And just in case, and this is probably my strongest motivation, it’s something from Mac. This whole reality shit is probably too much for even Mac to figure out, but if anyone can, it’s him. But then I put the phone back in my pocket and turn my attention to my current dilemma.

  Shit, I’ll just do it. I pull on the gloves, stand up, reach down for the box and pick it up. Probably I should’ve tested them in some way before going all in, but now that I’m committed, everything seems okay. I’m certainly not doing that dimensional shift thing I did last time. The box isn’t that heavy, but it’s going to be a bugger getting the thing down the stairs. I’ll deal with that when I come to it.

  I retrace my steps, heading in the direction of staircase number 2—and, I think, away from the singing. I’m walking as fast as I can, without running or seeming hurried; the old casual speed has kicked in. I see the top of the stairs, I’m feeling good, I’m focussed on getting out and away, and maybe because of that I fail to see the man sitting on the bench. The Barleycorn King himself.

  Naturally.

  He gestures at me with his stick. I suppose he wants me to come closer. There’s no way that’s going to happen. I keep walking.

  “Kern Brom,” he calls. Which is more annoying than anything else.

  “Brom,” I say, “Just Brom.” I keep walking, all the while reminding myself that I shouldn’t have engaged with him.

  “You stealing that box from me, Brom?”

  “Box is mine,” I say. The stairs are so close. Only a few more steps. As long as I can get onto the stairs, I think I’ll be okay. Why I think that, I’m not sure. The combination of stairs and Barleycorn King hasn’t proved reassuring in the past. But then, he’s still sitting on the seat, though his red-striped cane is bobbing up and down impatiently.

  “You sure about that?”

  I’d shrug if I could. The truth is way more complicated than I need to go into.

  My foot is on the top of the stairs, the metal landing. Drifting up from below is the sound of the prophets, accompanied—without much sympathy for the underlying rhythmic structure of the song—by the clanging of steps. I see the top of a prophet’s head. Dark blonde hair wound up and threaded through with flowers. She lifts her face and smiles as she ascends the top few stairs. It’s a wondrous sight, but tempered by the fact she obviously expects me to stand aside. And really, what other choice do I have? I take a few steps, just a few to the right, but it’s a mistake, The Barleycorn King is right beside me, his breath on my neck. I can just about see his cane off to the side. I am not going to look at him. This is exactly the position I had vowed not to be in.

  “A touch of yellow today,” says the Barleycorn King. And, if I’m not mistaken, his voice is sad.

  The head chorister bows her head, but she don’t give him anything other than that. She keeps on moving, up the High Track, back in the direction I’d just come from. Her acolytes follow her. A few of them look at me and the Barleycorn King, but most just keep on with their singing, as if they were in a trance, in another world. Although one, I swear, winks at me; and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to some admiration of the way her robe swings against her body. But this is not the time or place, not to mention that ther
e is a distinctly off-limits vibe about the whole prophet choir thing.

  “I’d hoped the green would continue for a little longer,” the Barleycorn King continues.

  I sneak a glance at him, mostly to gauge the depth of his madness. He is standing straight and tall, as if watching the passing of a parade. A salute would not be out of place, although his hands are at his side. His robes are the same as yesterday, a mixture of muted greens and browns. They are held in place by a wide rope belt. The striped cane is still there, close to me.

  “The idea first came from the Trocarn, although the technology, of course, is completely different. It’s the inks in the robes, you know, that react to the air quality. The green you saw yesterday inspired that remarkable singing. Today’s song has touches of melancholy.”

  This is all very well and good, but that’s not why he’s here and we both know it.

  The last prophet comes up the stairs. I move to take her place, merging myself into the tail of the choir.

  “Not so fast,” he says. It’s the tap of the cane that stops me, rather than the words, but stop I do, although I don’t turn around.

  “It won’t help, you know,” he remarks. “She’s tried before. She always fails.”

  “I promised,” I say.

  The Barleycorn King taps his cane again and this time I turn to look at him. For some reason I fixate on his features, try to determine if this is in fact an older, madder version of Guerra. The man’s hair is grey and unkempt. He has dignity, but he’s less sure of himself than Guerra is. His face is so lined that it’s impossible to know. It could be Guerra. It could be someone else altogether. It could be that this place is fucking with my mind.

  The Barleycorn King takes a step towards me. “You don’t strike me as someone who always keeps his promises,” he says.

  I decide—if an impulse to flee counts as a decision—that this line of conversation is getting me nowhere. I clang down the stairs as fast as I am able, holding the goddam box. I almost trip and fall and my knee protests most of the way down, but I make it. I slow myself to a casual walk once I’m past the Tentie vine sculpture, and I pointedly ignore Olwin Duilis as I pass her. I get away from the area under the High Track; it seems safer out in the open, although, logically that’s probably not true. I see people, fellow Barlewin citizens, albeit not of my time or reality. If they see anything unusual about me, or about my parcel, there’s no indication. And if the air quality is less pure than yesterday, nobody seems to mind or care. We’re all going about our business, free as birds.

  I have a sudden longing for the Chemical Conjurers. They’d be up for a bit of much-needed distraction, but even without their assistance I manage to make my way through the market shops without noticeable pursuit. I look Olwin Duilis in the eye as I approach the water tower, but not for long. I walk underneath its cool shade and out the other side. My right hand feels a little weird and I’m slightly queasy, but I ignore that and I press on. Almost home. I hear something and, despite my better judgement, I half-turn; and then it happens.

  I glitch out of here and into the Time Dance.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Green Jay

  ACCORDING TO ROSE-Q, thousands, maybe millions of Trocarn formed themselves into a living spaceship. Some hardened to become the outer hull, some were softer, part of the internal. They all fused together. They all died, really. They had to, they couldn’t keep their own thoughts, their own lives. They let their minds grow together, become one. One creature, which could manoeuvre through space. How strange, how lonely. But inside the creature were eggs, kept fertilised, but in stasis, ready for a time they could be born. New, fresh beings in a new place. Parts of the ship broke away, parachuted down in protective sacs containing the eggs, ready for the planet, ready for life. And then the ship sailed on. Is it still travelling, orbiting some other earth, or has it disintegrated in space? Rose-Q could not say. And why did we never know this, here? How could we have not noticed thousands of beings floating down to earth?

  Why would they do it? There was no catastrophe that Rose-Q spoke of. I imagine them a long, long time ago, before Rose-Q or any of the Trocarn we know were born, living in another place. Somewhere, if I understand it properly, that cannot be reached by normal means. No space ship that we design will ever be able to fly there. Or perhaps I have misunderstood that part altogether. Everything Rose-Q says is hazy, but I think she has told me that Trocarn society was based around manipulation of life, sometimes at the most basic level, sometimes as an adjunct to their own forms. Their art was the art of cells and flesh, their laws were the laws of poisons and infiltration, their relationships were based on the level of biological sharing. They morphed and changed as they grew, deliberately. But then, perhaps inevitably, there came forms that were more highly prized. And of course there were some that grew tired of the limits of the life they knew. There are always adventurers.

  But this is all my imaginings, mixed in with something of what Rose-Q told me. I know I will have it wrong, misunderstand in some important, fundamental way. But there is something there, something true. I am envious of her story. I don’t know why. It is almost ridiculous, after all. I would have liked to have floated down to earth, separating from some giant creature, created just for me and my brothers and sisters. I know Rose-Q’s tale is just a story, a way of telling others about the Trocarn.

  I would like a creation myth too, but I know exactly how I was made. And there is nothing romantic about it. But if I manage to separate myself from Olwin Duilis, that will be a story of courage, a story someone could tell. It will sound ridiculous, I know, but that does not mean it will not be true.

  Crow

  MY FIRST INSTINCT is to drop the box, but that seems difficult to do. I close my eyes, try some slow, deep breaths, more to distract myself from the nausea than anything else. I’ve stopped walking, and I know I’m hunched over a bit, because shit, I feel sick. But the deep breaths are doing nothing and having my eyes closed just makes me feel trapped in the nausea. I open them, knowing whatever I see won’t be helpful.

  To a point, I’m right. It’s just a flickering of water tower images. The only difference is the graffiti on the tower. There’s one of a girl stuck inside a jar of berries that, I have to say, is very much in tune with my current state. Some of the berries are whole and some are mushed and the same could be said of the girl. It’s an interesting artistic depiction, but not one that lingers. I’m moving on and through. There are other images and in one reality, sadly lacking in imagination, nothing at all except the grey wall of the water tower. I try and remember what this side of the water tower looks like back home—my real home—but I’m buggered if I know.

  The next best thing is to look for that large bird in Ed and Judith’s reality and hope that this particular artist’s imagination hasn’t been replicated in too many places. I remember Mac telling me that each time jump is less than a second. That seems wrong, these jumps seem longer, but in any case, there’s not much time if I’m going to make a move. I wiggle my fingers as much out of the gloves as I can. I wait for the bird, wait and wait, and then as soon as it appears, I force myself to drop the box, fling it down on the ground and then whip off the gloves. My right hand is red and looks more than a little burnt, but yes, I’m in the land of the bird water tower and I hope to hell there are some friendly farmers close by.

  I see figures that I hope are Ed and Judith running towards me. I’m not sure if they’re just very slow runners or if my brain is having its own quiet meltdown, because they seem to be taking a while. I decide that my previous decision to stay standing until they get here was an unnecessary one. I fall forward, luckily in the same slow motion and luckily in a different direction to the box. The grass here is not as fluffy as up on the High Track. There are spiky plants and yellow flowers that live close to the ground. Yellow isn’t as good as green, I think. I wonder why the hell not.

  SOMETIME LATER AND everything’s sorted. Ed managed to lever the b
ox up onto a trolley and wheel it back to the farm. We had a long discussion about the gloves during which he imparted a lot of technical information which went over my head and which was punctuated by Judith remonstrating with him for letting me burn my hand. Ed appears exceedingly proud that the left hand glove remained totally functional throughout. It’s the reason I managed to come back to this reality, in his opinion. I, for one, am grateful that the left hand glove was generous enough to let my entire body follow along with the wayward right hand glove and not insist on keeping part of me for itself. But more than that, I’m happy to be back. I’ve not been so fussed over in some time and I’m not sure that it’s going to get old. Mind you, I could do without the reasons for the fuss.

  Ed and Judith don’t open the box. At least not as far as I’m aware. Not in front of me, anyway; and right now, it’s sitting in the shed. It can stay there unopened, for all I care. I feel I’ve done my bit for Ed, Judith, Olwin Duilis, Eva, Guerra. Even for Mac.

  And so I sleep. For how long, I’m not sure. But then I discover Judith sitting on the end of my bed, holding a cup of tea and looking wistful. There’s some kind of insect burring against the window and I wish she’d just up and let it out, but instead she sits there looking at me.

  “I brought your phone,” she said. "You dropped it by the tower.” She hands it over and I wonder if she’s snuck a look. The messages I can see are half-hearted and blurred and all from the same number as before. Nothing much else seems to have survived the journey. I know the feeling.

  “They make no sense,” I tell her.