A Dyad in Time

by D. D. Prideaux

  “What are your plans?” He finally got out.

  “What are our, plans.” She corrected. “I’ll tell you on the way.” The smile was back, cheekiness the prevailing emotion this time.

  Rosalind finished getting dressed whilst Christophe went to his walk-in wardrobe to pick out the right outfit. The Merchant could be a tricky character when he wanted to be, so you needed to look the part. Carry yourself in a way that implied you were not to be dealt an ill deal. He agonised over each pairing, each shirt, each tie. He changed shoes three time and nearly started the whole process again when Rosalind stood at the door, hands on hips, eyebrow cocked. Defiant. He realised that he wasn’t concerned about The Merchant, he wanted to look good for her. He smiled, shrugged and walked towards her, knowing he was dressed more than appropriately for carrying out their business. Before reaching her, Rosalind playfully spun and walked away, making him watch her slink towards the door.

  “I am done for.” He whispered despairingly, then followed.

  * * *

  “He still has a flare for the dramatic, doesn’t he?” It wasn’t really a question, more the obvious observation as they stood at the entrance to The Merchant’s store. Christophe chuckled, remembering that the last time Rosalind saw Leopold. He’d only just begun his path of collecting and trading in rarities back then, his swagger quite the talk amongst the Lucidfolk. His particular brand of gregariousness only getting more intense with age, Rosalind and Christophe stared at the shopfront before them. Floor to ceiling there were jars filled with things you wouldn’t want to see in your nightmares. In between those jars, were more indescribable horrors, that made the jars ever more appealing. Ragged bones hung down in strange angles, torn furs and soiled rags wound their way into view, warning signs scratched in blood cursed you and told you to turn back. People actually crossed the road in favour of walking past the revolting show.

  “Apparently, it is to dissuade the wrong type of customer.” Christophe drawled, the crudeness of it discordant with his being. “You still have not told me why we are here.” He continued, the words elegantly falling from him with the soft French accent.

  “After.” Rosalind said wistfully, present, but not present. “Can you meet me back me here please?” She had him. Whatever face she pulled, he obeyed now. He was still her slave, of sorts, but a different kind of slave now.

  “Of course, Äsheenie. I have business I can attend to whilst you conduct yours.” He made to leave but her hand tugged him back and down towards her face. She brushed his cheek with her lips in the faintest of kisses. Her thanks. Christophe walked away partially dazed. She could flick between innocence and devilish knowing in an instant. He thought about that kiss and how immature it seemed in its sincerity, moving quickly on to how she had moved her body when they’d slept together. Not immature, but still sincere.

  Rosalind walked in the front door, pausing at a mirror. Countless times before, she’d looked at Anne’s face through Anne’s eyes. Eve’s features through Eve’s sight. Her own face felt incongruous, disarming. Shadows and mistruth will be her shield. Drawing a symbol on the mirror, Rosalind closed her eyes, thought some words and when she opened her eyes, they were Eve’s. She’d changed her features to familiar ones. Her mask of protection. Smiling darkly, she walked further into the catacomb of nightmares, paying no attention to the show she was receiving. Eventually she reached an antechamber with an old, dark skinned man sat in a rocking chair. He was the epitome of voodoo. Not the real voodoo that was still practised, but the Naïve version designed to scare and intimidate. A painted skull cut across the man’s features, dark recesses and bright bone colours designed to frighten. Bones hung around his neck, held together with rough twine, fragile from years of wear and poorly replaced sections. He rocked back and forth, slowly eyeing her as she came in, smoke billowing out of a cup of unknown liquid, yellow and dirty teeth bared in his effort at a welcoming smile. Rosalind stopped, standing in the same way she stood earlier in Christophe’s closet, all cocky and arrogant.

  “Enough of your tricks, Leopold. I need something from you.” Rosalind said politely.

  The smile across the dark skin somehow got wider, yellowing and tired eyes getting bright with excitement. “Eve.” The skinny bag of bones exclaimed, elongating the word for longer than was normal. The sound of the voice coming from the rocking chair was loud, youthful and full of life, the booming tone of it almost knocking Rosalind over. “I thought it was you!” He whispered some words to himself and with a flourish of his hand the shop completely changed. As did he. The shop door closed and locked itself, the outside still looking like the entrance to an evil lair, but its contents swirled and moved. Colours and shapes melting into a whirling pool of indistinguishable nonsense. It coalesced into the centre of the room, nothingness surrounding it before it shone brightly, causing Rosalind to cover her eyes. When she could focus again she was looking at a pristine shop floor. Sparse plinths with glass cases held treasures with forgotten names. Brilliant white drowned them both, the only marks of colour coming from the treasures and their description plaques. Dark pine coloured rectangles with elegant gold script told their secrets and showed their hefty, unsecret price tags.

  “I don’t know why the Naïve’s hide prices when it comes to fancy things. It feels cheap. If something is of value, show it.” His voice carried towards her from the other side of the room where he motioned for her to sit. As she walked over, she noticed that the section she was going to, was an explosion of colour and warmth in stark contrast to the rest of the shop. Stunningly restored oak hardwood floors provided a classy foundation. The walls and ceiling were the same white colour, but they were dappled with hanging and standing plants of every green imaginable. Tastefully spread around that part of the room they framed two large dark green chesterfield sofas, stylish, comfortable and inviting. In between them was a dark wood table, green leather set into the middle of it, which sat upon an expensive and colourful Turkish rug.

  “I find that these days, people come to me for rarer things than what is in plain sight.” He waved towards the plinths in the other part of the room as he sat his extremely large frame down in the seat opposite to where Rosalind had floated to without realising. He looked at where he was sat and took in the furnishings. “Much nicer way to discuss our business, like civilised people.” His huge, grey moustache tweaked up at the sides in line with his disarming smile. Careful Rosalind, she thought, he’s had a long time to perfect his tricks. “How can I help you my love?” He said warmly.

  “Straight to business it is then?”

  “Of course, The Last Word has escaped your grasp. So, even though I would very much like to catch up on old times I feel you may be here on rather more urgent matters.” He raised both brows and looked down his nose, smile still firmly in place.

  “I need twelve seeds.” Rosalind said calmly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - DRIFT

  I stand there for a long time thinking about Eve. All kinds of feelings and thoughts are swimming around in my head from before and after when I lost her. Fragments of how I felt about her would invade my mind whenever I tried to connect with another woman in my past few lifetimes, but it never felt right. It was like watching my own life from the outside. A bubble of day-to-day events seen from the other side of the blurry, oily, shifting surface. I didn’t know at the time, that it was due to my heart belonging to someone else, but as I recaptured parts of myself, the memories came more freely. It was like I was allowed to explore more and more rooms in a huge mansion that had previously been cordoned off by fear or dread. A false protection I’d set up to save myself from pain. Pain was part of me though. My past had defined who I was now and ignoring it for so long had stopped me from moving forward. The defences I’d put in place didn’t safeguard my future, they imprisoned it, giving me little choice in the paths I could take.

  I smile as another line joined the previous one on my hand. It looked like the peak of a triangle or a chevron and I
let the feelings of accomplishment wash over me as new realisations came to me one after the other. A tap on the shoulder broke my moments peace and I follow the black pointing non-arm towards something in the middle of the room. A small gold sphere floated there, its surface unbroken and constantly moving like the surface of a bubble. It felt like the room had manifested what I was imagining earlier, but the golden light had a blackness around it too. That treacherous light seemed to be turning in on itself, rushing towards its own core and hissing as it moved. After the soil, roots and bones disappear the room, it’s suddenly a lot bigger and I notice tiles covering each of the walls in a dreary greyness. In stark contrast however, one tile shouts at me from amongst the bland walls, it glowing the same colour as the globe. Then, as abruptly as it was shouting at me, the colour melts away without warning. When the life had fully drained from it, its peaceful, floating friend also disappeared with a sucking, warping noise. Then with the same sound, a new flat square lit up in a new place and a different sized golden circle floated in the corner of the room, partially melting into the wall, hissing and tempting me towards it with that beautiful and ugly light. Instead, I walk over to the tile and hover my hand over it.

  “Shall we?” I look at Tchook who’d grown again. A non-hand seventy-five percent the size of mine shot forward and pressed mine to the gentle light. I think he laughed at me hesitating and I’m glad of the push. When my cool skin touched the warm wall, it dimmed and the globe suck-whooshed away. A new pair appearing in different parts of the room. Casually strolling over to the new square, I curse my stupidity. It flickers a few times and then went out, its floating partner also going with it. When they’d both gone, my body’s hit with an excruciating jolt of what felt like electricity. My back spasms, my muscles contort, and I feel like all of my joints have been pulled in the wrong directions. Wincing as I lay there, bones aching at the force of the magik, I see a new golden square appear above me.

  Chuckling out loud at my mistake I then scream with such agony I can feel my eyeballs trying to escape my head. I can feel every vein in my body straining to keep blood inside my body. Tchook grabs my shoulders and pulls me roughly back a few feet. I can hear clothes tearing as we went, my own horrific scream echoing in my ears. Tchook’s rippling with anger, non-head fixed on where the pain came from. A little golden ball was drifting away from the floor, innocently hovering without a care in the world. I’m sure I’d just been laying there. Fresh agony shocks its way through me, the same feelings of the jolting magik from earlier, but I know it’s my body reacting this time rather than the room. The innocent gold had moved enough now to see what it’d left behind. My left foot and ankle lay there, cauterised and strange. Why was my foot over there? Confusion and agony mix inside me, my eyes screwing shut with new feelings cascading up from my thigh. I shouldn’t look. But I do. About halfway down my thigh, a still sizzling cut spat out its hateful smells and pain. There’s a matching cauterised wound on the foot that lays far out of reach. My last thought before I pass out is of that shimmering ball of light and how it’s taken the middle part of my leg without a second glance.

  * * *

  All I can taste is iron. That familiar and raw, bitter and metallic flavour was pervasive. This time around I know it’s not someone else's blood as I fight my way back to the living. My eyes hurt. My ears hurt. My head hurts. My heart hurts. My leg hurts. Everything hurts. Bones creak, ligaments strain and muscles ache as I try to prop myself up on my elbows. Sweat pouring from me, I catch a glimpse of my clammy pale skin wrapped in soft, clean clothes that comfort me. My left foot is extremely cold, but there’s warmth in the rest of the leg. Tchook had carefully folded the Bjørneskinn away from my damaged limb, rolling the trousers up so he could work. I don’t know if I’ve grown a completely new leg or just parts, but black not-quite-hands are wrapped around my middle thigh where there used to be a barbeque smell. One where you cooked too-old meat. I can feel the healing heat that comes from him, fascinated at how he knew he could do that. I flex my cold foot and ankle, working the blood into my toes and moving it all around as the aches and pains dissipate with Tchook’s touch. He’s definitely bigger than in the last room, almost teenager sized, but bulky. His not-quite-head turns on strong not-quite-shoulders as I manage to steady myself on my elbows and cough. I smile, my eyes pouring thanks from them, my mouth gushing with the same intensity. He bristled happily, his black surface catching the light and making me laugh.

  “I’m starving.” Tchook helps me to sit up, keeping my legs outstretched on the bed and then darts for the food on the table. He’s moving more purposefully than before. Still fluid and ethereal, but there’s an intent behind how me moved. We were both growing it seemed. Looking past the non-body at the wall I see he’s been keeping track of the days whilst I was out. I’ve lost body parts in the past, mostly fingers, and they took a couple of days to grow back, but a whole leg had taken the same time. We were both growing, and we were both accessing fresh magiks. Maybe these rooms aren’t so bad. As if reading my mind, lightening whipped up my leg, reminding me not to get complacent. Reminding me how dangerous the newest room was and reminding me how thankful I was for Tchook’s support. Food lands on my lap and blackness surrounds my wound again. Life pours into every part of me, strength returning with small glimmers of hope sprinkled in as a healthy seasoning.

  Hurt disappears from me as I eat and rest for the next few hours, aided by healing non-hands and time with my thoughts. The endless tick-toking of the clock combined with Tchook’s squeaks and purrs help to keep me company whilst we wait. After a time, we test the recently grown pale flesh, finding it more than adequate for the task at hand and decide to get going again. I work the stiffness out of my joints, warming up my body and breathing deeply to bring peace. Even though the new bones and muscles feel alien at first, there’s no slowing me down in the room and before long it’s as if I’d never been injured. Squares glowed, bubbles of all sizes and speeds appeared, sequences were broken, and my body was shocked to its core with magikal energy I came to love and hate, but I don’t stop. Each twisted joint, each spasm, each digging, probing pain taught me something. Tap. Flow. Tap. Flow. Tap. Flow. I drift in and out of a mental state that helps me sense, rather than see where the squares and globes appear, automatically shifting, stepping, sweeping to the next target. I know I’ll need this skill if I’m to set us free. I know it’s just another piece of me that would prove to be the difference. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow. Never stop.

  Weeks pass like this. The only marker of us progressing through the sequence was Djoonga getting brighter and brighter before dimming at a mistake or me not being quick enough. Time doesn’t seem to register even though we keep track of it. The routine of what we’re doing keeps us focused and driven. Exercises, warm ups, practices, trial runs, eating, resting, healing, meditating, reflecting sleeping, there’s more than enough to keep us occupied and I know that with time, came patience. The initial fear of the room dissipates as I get better too. Always faster. Always stronger. Always more agile. When my progress seems to stall, echoes of my past reveal themselves, helping me attack the room in new ways, keeping me safe. Never stopping.

  We have good and bad days. I even know which kind of day I would have based on how I feel when I wake. The good ones are marked with a clear mind, bright eyes and belief. The bad ones are marked with a foggy mind, tired eyes and failing heart. The bad ones are the most dangerous and delay us heavily. More than once, Tchook needed to pull me out of the way of the innocent and deadly floaters to avoid serious injury, a few narrowly missing my head. When he did, the sequence reset, and I’m visited by the lightning god. I never get angry though, understanding why he did it and thanking him for his help and foresight. Often, Tchook needed to pull me out of the way in an effort not to lose a part of myself, but I would always end up needing his healing non-hands and the bear skin. To try and alleviate the situation I draw a crude version of myself on the wall and ke
ep count of how many times a part of me is taken. Looking at it makes me feel good and sad, but I have no idea whether the rate of limb loss was standard or not. On the good days I don’t mind the tally, on the bad days I do.

  In my moments of quiet or when I’m repairing myself I think long and hard about my Äsheen. As I improve, so does he. As my mind gets stronger, so does our connection. As I learn new things about myself, he brightens or moves in a new way or physically reacts with more and more nuance. He tried to form words a few times, but the magik that made him didn’t stretch that far. It didn’t need to. We understood each other extremely well and learned from each other constantly. When echoes pushed me forward, they pushed him too. When I was struggling, he showed me things that helped. Nearing the four-month mark of this room, I actually watch him complete the sequence in the room, seeing Djoonga light up fully before a strange noise came from the door indicating it was the wrong participant. This wasn’t his test. It was mine. Witnessing that masterclass in movement, anticipation and agility I shrug the bear skin from my shoulders and chided him as he came to my side.

  “Show off.” The child in me won in that moment and I walk into the room to attempt a run. Butler-rack-healing-hands gently try to pull me back, but the fire in me is burning white hot. Good days, bad days, who cares. The bits in between, wrestling with both, is where the fun can be had. Warming up one of my brand-new limbs, a pale right arm, I wheel it around in big circles to gain control and breathe life into it. I’d woken up foggy, my eyes blurry and my heart sunken. Standing there, swinging my limb around my mind brightens, my eyes clear, and my fire tells me I can do this. Flexing my neck side to side I draw on everything I’ve been through so far. Reliving every attempt, every loss, every bit of pain, every move. I thought about the past, the present and the future. I imagine slow moving globes with my vision, focus on movements using the un-busy, drifting mind. I drown myself in visualising success and what it would take. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow... The mantra plays through in my head over and over again, taking me back to old training and piecing myself back together in the room of understanding... Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow. Drift. Tap. Flow. Stop.