Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Are you in love with Alodia, Malcolm?

  Malcolm hesitated, caught off-guard by the question. He’d been expecting more angry demands. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know. I enjoy being with her, I suppose.”

  Claire digested that, then wrote, Did you ever get married after High School?

  “No,” Malcolm said. “I never saw the point.”

  You preferred your books and lectures to starting a family?

  Malcolm took a deep breath. “I guess so. It just never seemed a priority for me.”

  Do you regret not having children?

  Malcolm frowned. “Why all the questions all of a sudden?”

  Claire smiled at him almost shyly as she erased and then added more words. I just want to get to know you again. The way things look, we’re going to be stuck with each other for a while.

  “Speaking of that,” Malcolm said. “Any idea how this thing works? This is only my second life. How many more do we get?”

  Claire shook her head, writing quickly. This is actually your third life. You forgot about the apeman.

  “Right,” Malcolm nodded. He smiled. “But that one didn’t last very long, so it shouldn’t count.”

  Claire laughed—a pleasant, musical note that surprised Malcolm almost as much as her sudden change in demeanor had. She wrote, still chuckling to herself. Gerald hypothesized that our past lives go back to the very beginning of humanity, so theoretically speaking, we could live hundreds, maybe even thousands of lives. I’m not really sure.

  “Are they all random?” Malcolm asked.

  It appears that way, Claire wrote. But I believe we’re locked into our genders for some reason. I’m not sure how that came about.

  “That’s interesting,” Malcolm said, having suspected that was the case. He’d never been a sexist in his life; at least, he didn’t think he’d been. But the plain truth was being a male throughout most of human history would be an advantage for him—one that Claire didn’t have if she persisted with her notion of trying to change the future.

  Claire showed him the tablet. Do you realize we might be immortal, Malcolm? We might actually live forever like this.

  Malcolm hesitated in surprise at the words. He hadn’t thought about what was happening to them quite like that. It was a humbling and awe-inspiring realization. “How many lives have you lived already, Claire?” Malcolm finally asked.

  Claire scrunched up her face, thinking before she wrote: Twelve, I think. After a while, they start to blur in my memory.

  “What happened to you and Margaret after Blackbeard died?” Malcolm asked. He’d always wondered, but with Claire’s fixation on changing the past, he hadn’t been given the opportunity to ask.

  Claire’s face turned downwards. They hung her with the other pirates, Malcolm.

  “Oh,” Malcolm said, feeling saddened by the waste. “How long after?”

  After what?

  “After Blackbeard died,” Malcolm said. “Did they hang her right away?”

  Claire shook her head. No, it was March of the next year. They kept us locked up until then.

  “So, four months then,” Malcolm said, thinking about Einstein’s time dilation theory.

  Yes. Why?

  “I was just curious. I was with Artturi for almost three weeks before Alodia had Frida.”

  Ah, Claire wrote, understanding in her eyes. So we don’t arrive together in a new timeline. There’s a gap depending on who dies first.

  “It appears so,” Malcolm agreed. He thought of when he was a boy tossing rocks into Lake Bardwell. The ripples had started small when the stone first went in, but they expanded rapidly after that, spreading further and further across the water. Was that what he and Claire were doing in the past, causing ripples in the timeline? And if so, at what point did those ripples tip the scales and change things like what Claire claimed to have done to the Titanic?

  Some people believed that all life on earth was predetermined, almost like a mathematical equation, with A representing birth and Z death, and everything between already mapped out by their god, fate, or some other celestial force. But what if because of something he or Claire did, a person’s equation was stopped at a different letter like P or R just like poor Margaret’s had been? Was that a paradox, or was the universe just self-correcting, and nothing they did in the past actually mattered. Had Margaret’s P or R really been her Z all along, regardless of what they had done in 1718? Malcolm shook his head, trying to grasp the idea of it as he extrapolated the theory. Did that also mean that all those people on the Titanic would have died in some other way soon afterward, whether the ship had gone down or not? It seemed hard to imagine, but it was feasible, he supposed. So, using the A to Z equation, was Margaret’s undeserved death actually causing ripples along the timestream that hadn’t been there before, or had she always been fated to die anyway, just in a different way? It was an interesting concept—one which Malcolm knew he’d have to devote more time to consider. He felt a hand tugging at his arm, realizing he’d been lost in thought for some time.

  Where did you go? Claire wrote.

  “Sorry,” Malcolm said. “I was just thinking about predeterminism and ripples.”

  Claire looked at Malcolm strangely, then wrote, I don’t remember you being this weird.

  Malcolm burst out laughing. “You knew me a long time ago, Claire. People change.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I was weird back then too.”

  We were all weird at that age.

  “That’s true,” Malcolm agreed. He thought back to the good times the two of them had had, feeling a hint of nostalgia come over him. “We sure were young back then,” he said. “Young and stupid.”

  Claire nodded, looking unsure of herself before she wrote: You were my first, you know.

  Malcolm hesitated as he read the words. He looked at Claire in confusion. “I thought—”

  Claire swept her hand abruptly through the air, cutting him off. He saw anger flare-up in her eyes—anger and hurt. I don’t count that.

  “Oh, I see,” Malcolm said, knowing his face was reddening. He grinned weakly, feeling suddenly awkward. “You were my first, too.”

  They say you never forget your first, Claire wrote, her face brightening. And I never forgot you.

  Malcolm looked away, knowing it was a lie. After High School, he’d never heard from Claire again until the phone call to ask for his help with Gerald’s book. He turned back as Claire nudged his arm.

  I always felt bad about breaking up with you. My mother’s death screwed me up.

  “You got over it pretty quick,” Malcolm pointed out bitterly, regretting it the moment the words left his lips.

  Claire dropped her eyes, her face tightening as she wrote. It had nothing to do with you, Malcolm. I just couldn’t handle things back then.

  Malcolm grimaced, feeling again the hurt of seeing Claire laughing as she walked the school halls on Gerald Blackwood’s muscular arm. The two had started going steady less than three weeks after Claire and Malcolm had broken up and the events in her house had happened. Gerald was sixteen, tall, handsome, and could already grow a full beard—everything Malcolm hadn’t been at the time. He’d hated everything about Claire’s new boyfriend and had always blamed himself for losing her, believing if he’d somehow been more supportive after Claire’s mother had died, they would have stayed together. But Malcolm had been a teenager then—all raging hormones and awkward limbs—and he’d had no idea what to say to get her to stop crying.

  Malcolm had lost his virginity with Claire only days before her mother’s death, and it had been an incredible experience—one he’d desperately wanted to keep happening. But all she did after her mother died was cry or sit quietly looking sad. It had been selfish of him, he knew, but back then her grief and the problems she had at home had taken a back seat to his own needs and desires. Claire had dumped him only days after her mother had died, unable to cope with the loss. Malcolm had been determined to get her back som
ehow, but Gerald Blackwood had appeared on the scene first and had swooped in on Claire with his good looks and easy charm. The smug bastard.

  Malcolm thought of another saying from his father whenever he saw teenage boys gathered on the streets acting like idiots as they pushed and shoved at one another. “See those assholes, Malcolm,” he would say as they drove past, pointing his cigar. “Young, dumb, and full of cum, every damn one of them. I’ve got hundreds just like them working the rigs right now. Not a brain to rub together among them, but the bastards can work. I’ll give them that.” He’d point the cigar at Malcolm next. “Don’t you be like them, hear? You’re better than that. I’ve got big plans for you, boy.”

  Malcolm shook his head with regret, knowing, in the end, he’d been just like those other boys when it had come to Claire. He’d been more interested in getting into her pants than trying to understand what she was going through, and it had cost him their relationship. Malcolm had thought he was in love with Claire back then, and though it was all so long ago, the sting of losing her still echoed inside him. He figured it always would.

  You look so sad, Malcolm, Claire wrote.

  “I was just thinking about the past. About how I failed you when you needed me the most. I’ve always felt bad about it.”

  Claire smiled, reaching out to squeeze his arm before she wrote. You were so young, Malcolm. We both were. Don’t beat yourself up about it. What happened back then is water long under the bridge. She sighed, erasing her words and writing again. I need some time to think. I’m going to walk ahead with the others. Thank you for this talk, Malcolm. I want us to be friends again, and this is a good start.

  Malcolm watched her go, knowing he was looking at a child but still seeing the girl and woman that she’d been in a different time. Claire had asked him earlier if he was in love with Alodia, but he hadn’t had an answer to that. He felt deep affection for Frida’s mother; there was no question. But truthfully, if he analyzed his feelings, he knew love had always been elusive for him, never quite able to penetrate his heart as it did for most people. He had loved once long ago and had ultimately been crushed by it, so he had accepted the fact that it would never happen again.

  A poet or romantic might describe what he’d experienced with Claire as being the one, great love of his life. Malcolm didn’t put much thought into that kind of crap, but he did know one thing as he watched the girl move away through the trees. That great love Malcolm had thought he’d lost long ago was back, and he had no idea what he was going to do about it—because his feelings for her were back too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MALCOLM: The City of Aquileia, Rome

  Malcolm stood with Claire and the three legionnaires on a narrow road that led to the city of Aquileia. After ten days of travel, he still found it hard to believe that he was here at all, staring at the grandeur of what someday would become one of Rome’s greatest cities. Founded in 181 BC, the city stood at the head of the Adriatic Sea on the Natiso River, just west of the Roman province of Illyria. Originally built as a bulwark to discourage invasion from the rampaging Gauls to the west, Malcolm knew it would transform over time into an important commercial hub and a key point for launching expeditions and military conquests. By the second century AD, the city would have a staggering population of over two hundred thousand people. Aquileia was fated to stand for more than six hundred years before Attila the Hun utterly destroyed it in the fifth century during his conquest of Italy. The city would be rebuilt, of course, but would never again attain the kind of importance that it had enjoyed in its heyday.

  Aquileia was shaped in a crude rectangle, with its eastern and southern sides marked by the river that swept around its high walls. A well-maintained road called the Via Postumia led westward, following the coast before traveling on through the mountains for almost six hundred miles, linking Aquileia with the Roman city of Genua. Malcolm could see a small port along the water to the east of the city gates, known as the porto fluviale. He knew someday that port would become a teeming hub of warehouses and quays, one of which would stretch a monumental 1,312 feet, with two docking levels and landing stages paved with stairs. But today, the port was modest in size, with only a few sluggish merchant ships moving along the slow-flowing river.

  “So, my friend,” Flavius said. “I guess this is it.” He turned to face Malcolm with his face etched in sadness. “There are no words to express the debt we three owe you for getting us here. There were times I didn’t think that it would happen.”

  “You would have made it without me,” Malcolm said, both of them knowing that it was a lie. The trip had been harrowing and fraught with danger, with wandering bands of Cimbri, Teutones, and Helvetti all around them. They had almost been attacked three times in recent days and, without Malcolm’s intervention, he knew the Romans wouldn’t have lasted a single day. “Besides,” Malcolm added, thinking of how much he’d enjoyed Flavius’ company. “It gave us time to talk.”

  Malcolm glanced at Claire, who stood holding her tablet clutched against her chest. He’d formed a bond of sorts with her in the past ten days, both enjoying the other’s company immensely. Though he guessed by Claire’s reactions sometimes that she was being cagey and still hadn’t given up on convincing him to help her. Whenever the subject of their current timeline came up, Malcolm always answered vaguely, well aware that she was pumping him for information. They’d mostly spent the long days of travel reminiscing about the good times they’d had together—as few as those had been—and about what they’d done with their lives after leaving High School. The last few days with Claire had been some of the best of Malcolm’s life, and a part of him was sorry to see the walls of Aquileia rise before them. The trip back to Noreia with Claire would be just as long and dangerous, he knew, but something told him the magic of these last few days would end once the Romans were gone and they were alone.

  Claire wrote something on her tablet, then turned it for Malcolm to see. We should go into the city, Malcolm.

  “Why?” Malcolm asked, surprised.

  Flavius glanced at the tablet as Claire started erasing her words, shaking his head. “Your language is so strange looking,” the older Roman said. “I’ll never understand all those thick lines and odd shapes.”

  Malcolm grinned. Flavius thought the words Claire was writing on her tablet were from the Cimbrian and Teutone languages—which didn’t even exist in written form. He wondered what his friend would say if he knew English wouldn’t exist in any form either for another five or six hundred years.

  Claire finished writing, using both sides of the tablet before she turned it toward him. Because I can tell you want to, Malcolm. You told me this city was special and that you were looking forward to seeing it. So why not go all the way and see the whole thing? You might never get a chance like this again.

  Malcolm hesitated, knowing that she was right. Their next lives could be anywhere, and they could be anyone, with no guarantees of ever returning to this place. It was an incredible opportunity—one that would be a shame to pass up. “It’s too risky,” Malcolm finally said, though not with any conviction. “We need to get back.” He thought guiltily of Alodia, not even knowing if she was still alive as he felt his eyes returning to Aquileia, the historian inside of him staring at her stone walls with longing.

  Claire shook her head and wrote: I’m tired and hungry. One more day won’t make a difference at this point. She grinned as she erased her words and then wrote in big letters: Live a little, Malcolm! We have eternity on our side!

  “What’s she saying?” Flavius asked. Beside him, Remus blew snot on the ground, looking impatient to be off.

  “She says she’s hungry and needs to rest before we head back. What do you think? Is there somewhere in the city that’s inconspicuous where we can get something hot to eat?”

  “By the gods!” Flavius exclaimed, looking crestfallen. “I prattle on about gratitude, yet show you and the child none. Of course she may rest and eat. The bot
h of you shall. I know just the place. It’s out of the way, with wonderful food and rooms to rent for the night. You’ll be safe there, I promise.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Malcolm said. “Just a quick meal, then we’ll be off.”

  “Nonsense,” Flavius said, waving away Malcolm’s words. “It’s the least that I can do.” He frowned then. “But you can’t go in there looking like a barbarian. You’ll stand out for certain. Take off that mail.” Flavius glanced at Gervais. “Give Artturi your cuirass and helmet. It won’t be perfect, but it should stop people from staring too much.” He turned back to Malcolm as Gervais began removing his armor. “Just keep that long hair of yours hidden and we should be fine. They’ll probably just think you’re from the western provinces, if they even notice you at all.”

  Malcolm nodded, handing his mail shirt and helmet back to Gervais, who placed them in a sack he had slung over his shoulder. The tall man’s cuirass fit well enough, but the cassis was a little tight on his head and he struggled to pull it on all the way.

  Flavius finally used his fist and pounded on the top until the helmet settled into place. “There,” the older Roman said in satisfaction. “That looks better. Now, let’s get moving.”

  Malcolm took Claire’s hand, grinning as she squeezed it, while Flavius led them along the road. He could feel his heart soaring with anticipation as the small company reached the open gates and entered Aquileia. A wide cobblestone street lined with marble columns ran north to south through the city interior, known as the cardo maximus. Malcolm knew a similar road would be cutting through the city from east to west, intersecting with each other at the forum, which was the center of day-to-day life in all Roman cities. An almost abandoned market sat to his right, and rich, residential buildings layered in white stucco rose to his left. These would be the houses of the Patricians, the richer citizens, while further north on either side of the road rose smaller, wood and brick-faced quarters for the poorer folk, known as Plebeians.