to do what you’ve done, seeing the generations pass, living
through so much history. It’s an amazing gift.”
Enoch raised his hands in a shrug. “What do they know,
who haven’t lived it? I look at this stream and see my life as a
shaft of sunlight, spent in a minute. Is that a bad thing? Not for
me. No one wants to leave familiar places, but my wife, my
children, and my grandchildren have already gone through
death’s door. I miss them. I like seeing the swiftness of the
water. I like knowing it will soon carry me away to lands too
strange to imagine.”
“Some would say there isn’t any price too great to live so
long.”
Enoch sighed. “Is my long life a price, when you just
called it a gift? Maybe it’s both. But you’re right; I have been
gifted beyond hope. I should be glad. I am glad. I have a clock
to wind. We should hurry before time passes us by.”
They left the bridge and trekked out of the quadrangle into
a corridor lined with blue-velvet wallpaper. Before they had
gone a hundred paces, a scout hurried back to report at least
forty anarchists approaching, led by what appeared to be a
Poetry Woman.
Cumby ground his boot heel against the floor. “If we hurry,
we can catch them in a cross-fire. Or we can retreat, try to
work our way around them.”
“No,” Enoch said. “From what I hear, these poets can’t be
stopped by bullets, and it would take too long to avoid them.
We have to reach the Hundred Years Clock. We should return
to the bridge.”
Cumby nodded. “The far bank is a defensible position, but
I don’t see—”
“It’s me they’re after,” Enoch said. “They know if they
keep me from winding the clock, it will go badly for
Evenmere. But that bridge; I told you I came this way on
purpose. They don’t know what I can do on that bridge. They
don’t know anything. We should hurry.”
The squad made their way back to the bridge and crossed
to the other side, where the lieutenant organized the men
around the structure, using its stonework and the trees along
the banks for protection. But Enoch paced across the bridge,
removing his greatcoat to reveal glistening chain mail. From a
silver scabbard covered with runes and inlaid with topaz and
lapis lazuli, he drew a two-handed sword adorned with ivory
and pearls. His eyes shone brilliant as he grasped the blade,
and with his Assyrian curls and fierce, ancient face, he
suddenly seemed much more than a kindly old clock-winder.
Wulf Cumby hurried to the Windkeep. “Enoch, you need
to take cover.”
“I need to be here.”
“I’m under orders to safeguard you.”
“You think you can protect me? You can’t. This poet, I feel
her coming. She’s meant for me. Don’t worry; she wants me,
she can come get me. I’ll give her more me than she knows
how to handle. Keep your men under cover. Don’t fire unless
they fire first.”
“We’ll lose the advantage.”
“Against her kind of power, there isn’t any advantage.”
Enoch clasped Cumby by the shoulder. “Don’t fear, lad, just
do as I say.”
As the lieutenant returned to his men, he heard Enoch
mutter, “Do I know what I’m talking about? I hope so. If not,
Carter will have to hire somebody new. Let’s see what an old
man can do.”
He moved to the center of the arching bridge, an easy
target standing at its highest point. He glanced from side to
side and raised his sword, its point glistening as it caught the
light. Striding to the side of the structure, he dipped the blade
into the Stream of Time. The prismatic colors ran up and down
the weapon’s length, and when he lifted it, it radiated such
intense hues as could scarcely be borne by the unshielded eye.
Streams of light cascaded around him, starlight-glistenings
washing over his armor, washing over the lines of his ancient
face.
With a grim smile, he turned toward the anarchists pouring
out of the corridor which the squad had just abandoned. As
they entered the quadrangle, the enemy fanned out, not yet
firing, undoubtedly hesitant to cross the hundred yards of open
ground between them and the ensconced White Circle Guard.
Light streaming from her face, the poetess appeared,
thronged by her gray-clad followers, her flowing, high-
collared robe the same golden hue as her upswept hair.
“Keeper of Time!” she cried. “I have found you at last.”
Her voice rang in exultation, as if he should be glad at being
discovered. “Come to me, Hebrew from the dawn of the age.
Let us speak of matters beyond mortal understanding.”
“I’ll wait right here,” Enoch shouted back. “You want me,
you come over here.”
She spoke to a subordinate, words that did not carry to the
men on the bridge. He seemed to be arguing with her, but at
last she raised her hand and he stepped back and bowed in
compliance. With a smile, she approached the bridge, seeming
to glide rather than walk. Without pausing at the foot of the
span, she flowed up the arching stone until she stood within
ten feet of the Windkeep.
“Time, time, time,” she said, “and you the keeper of it.”
Her face blazed; she seemed suddenly taller, a goddess;
immortal, immovable. “But I can show you the eternal. I can
show you ecstasy. Do you hear the calling, Enoch? Do you
hear the summons?”
The soldiers at the bridge stood in silence, awed by the
lady’s power. Wulf Cumby abruptly found himself
unconsciously stepping toward her, and held himself in check
only with an effort.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t stay here,” Enoch said. “I have a
clock to wind.”
“Forget the clocks, mere measurements of the ephemeral.
Embrace the reality! Feel the wonder, the wonder beyond
wonder of timelessness—no more the guardian of the passing
moments, no more enthralled by the terrorizing seconds, the
murdering minutes, the debilitating hours. Life eternal, lived
outside the temporal. Never knowing death; never knowing
decay. Life! Life as it was meant! Life!”
Overcome by her majesty, the soldiers dropped their
weapons and hid their faces. Cumby felt himself moving
forward again, his hand reaching toward her.
Enoch shrugged. “You know my story? You know who I
am?”
“I know all about you. I have seen your soul. I have—”
“You think you know me? You want to tempt me? I’ve
seen the face of God. You, you’re just a person. I gave you
your chance.”
The poetess looked full into Enoch’s eyes. Seeing the calm
assurance there, she hesitated. Slowly, fear entered her gaze.
The Windkeep stepped forward. His sword, swirling with
the colors of the Stream of Time, swept in a smooth arc. The
poetess raised her hands to create a shimmering shiel
d, but the
blade passed right through it and continued through her body.
It did not cut her, but her form collapsed in on itself, withering
to the shape of a bent crone. Horror filled her features; a
scream slipped from her open mouth, only to abruptly end.
Then she was gone, whirling away in a cloud of dust.
An anguished cry rose from the anarchists’ ranks. Their
second-in-command, seeing their leader destroyed, raised his
pistol and fired. A dozen others followed suit, sending a volley
of shots at the Windkeep.
All the days of his life, Wulf Cumby never forgot the sight
of Enoch on the Ounceling Bridge. As the Windkeep raised his
sword again, its arcane energies swirling around it, something
happened to Time itself upon the span. Cumby heard the
discharge of the anarchists’ weapons, saw the smoke rising
from the barrels, but as the bullets reached the bridge, they
slowed, hanging nearly suspended in the air. The Windkeep
moved his sword in a wide arc, knocking the pellets down as
they came. He stepped to the side to avoid others, his image
blurring with the speed of his movements.
When the last bullet had been rendered useless, he called
back to Cumby. “Hold your fire, lad. I will deal with these.”
His brown eyes blazed, a warrior from ancient days, terrible in
his wrath.
Wulf Cumby hesitated. Every instinct urged him to attack
before the anarchists drew too close, yet the command in the
Hebrew’s voice restrained him.
“Hold your positions!” Cumby bawled to his followers.
The anarchists charged, discharging their pistols, their
weaponry turned on the lone figure on the bridge. Dozens of
shells hurtled toward Enoch. Again he moved with
supernatural celerity, to the right, to the left, dancing with
slight movements, avoiding the volleys, blocking some with
his sword.
The anarchists came on, swarming over the bridge, but as
they stepped into that strange zone of Time, their movements
slowed. Despite Enoch’s advantage, the sheer number of
adversaries confronting the Windkeep made Cumby gasp in
fear for him.
Enoch moved with a grace that belied his frame, weaving
in and out, parrying pistol-bayonets aside, never once using
the edge of his blade as he had against the poetess, but striking
with fist or sword hilt, so the anarchists fell stunned yet alive.
Some he thrust over the embankment into the Stream of Time,
where they vanished into the haze of the current.
As the foremost anarchists crumpled to the ground, leaving
a brief respite, Enoch flicked his sword, hurling the rainbow
colors that glistened along its edge. Wherever the cascades of
brilliance enveloped the anarchists, the men vanished without
a trace.
Enoch strode forward, brandishing his blade, exiling his
enemies into nothingness. A few more shots rang out, but he
either avoided them or batted them down with careless
disregard. His face shone in the many-hued light; he went
about his work with the meticulous attention he gave to
winding his clocks.
The anarchists had poured onto the bridge; now they
vainly sought to flee. The Windkeep moved through them,
around them, ahead of them, a blur compared to their crawling
movements. When the few survivors discovered him waiting
at the far end of the structure, they threw down their weapons
and fell to their knees, sobbing in fear and despair.
So overawed were Cumby’s men, not a one had fired a
shot.
Enoch raised his hand, and the rainbow colors deserted his
sword, leaving it a dull gray. Both the anarchists and the
Windkeep returned to their normal speeds, as Time resumed its
former course.
“Lieutenant Cumby,” Enoch called, “I believe these
gentlemen want you to accept their surrender.”
As if in a dream, Cumby stepped forward, trying not to
show fear as he walked onto the bridge and ordered the
sergeant to take command of the prisoners.
Cumby turned to Enoch. “If I hadn’t seen it myself …” He
fell speechless.
For the first time since the battle had begun, Enoch smiled,
the grin of a young boy. “Did I know for certain it would
work? No. But I hoped.”
“How did you do it? Where did you send them?”
Enoch shrugged. “Some to the past, some to the future;
none of them to be seen again by anyone alive today. I am the
Keeper of Time, Wulf. Time isn’t mine to command, but on
this bridge, with Time around me, there are things I can do.
They shouldn’t have tried to face me here.”
The lieutenant frowned. “Isn’t sending them into the past
dangerous? Couldn’t they change the present?”
“Who knows? Not me. But I never kill unless I have to.
Every person has a path to walk. Who am I to cut their journey
short? Even the blackest of hearts has a chance to reform. Let
this be a lesson to them. Maybe some will learn something and
start new lives wherever they end up. That isn’t in my hands.”
“And the Poetry Woman?”
“Gone, but I won’t regret her death. She was already dead.
There was no returning from what she had become.”
“I don’t understand.”
Enoch studied Cumby closely. The lieutenant suddenly felt
like a child beneath that kind scrutiny. “Like I told you, I’m
not good at explaining things. You live long enough, it comes
to you. Believe me.”
“How old were you before it ‘came to you’?”
Enoch gazed along the span of the bridge. “Three
hundred? Eighteen hundred? Who remembers? I should have
kept a diary. I’m not much for writing things down.”
At Cumby’s orders, the sergeant, accompanied by five
soldiers, set off to escort the twelve remaining anarchists east
into Corovia, while the rest of the company continued with
Enoch to wind the Hundred Years Clock.
Unlike Enoch, Lieutenant Wulf Cumby did keep a diary,
and in later years, in his memoirs, he wrote: So we went with
the Windkeep of Evenmere, the Keeper of Time, the Immortal
Hebrew who claimed to have once walked with God, the Wise
Man who could not explain his wisdom because we were too
young to understand. We journeyed to the Land of Twelve,
where he wound the Hundred Years Clock, and never again,
during the remainder of our travels, did I suffer the delusion
that we were protecting him.
Carter woke with the dull roaring of the destruction of
Shadow Valley still echoing in his ears. The polished floor
beneath him reflected his disheveled features. Shards of fallen
ceiling plaster lay all around. For a brief while, he could not
remember where he was. Gradually he came to himself and sat
up. Jonathan lay on the floor, clutching his stomach, his knees
raised to his chest, his face twisted in agony.
Carter crawled over to him. “Are you all right?”
The minstrel moaned, but did not answer.
“Jonathan?”
Storyteller waved a hand, bidding Lord Anderson wait. It
was several moments before he recovered enough to speak.
When he did, his voice came soft and strained, and Carter,
partially deafened, understood him only by reading his lips.
“I’m all right. That’s right.” Jonathan took a gasping
breath. He had his hands over his eyes. “Don’t worry about old
Storyteller, Master Anderson. He’s a flinty one. Sturdy as an
old tree, he is.”
“Are you wounded? I don’t see any signs.”
“Wounded to the heart. A hole scooped right out of me.”
Lord Anderson put his hands to his temples, which had
begun an incessant throbbing. He gradually became aware of
how horribly the Balance had changed. The entire universe
had shifted, teetering toward Chaos. Feeling sick and abruptly
faint, he covered his eyes with his hands.
After several minutes, he recovered himself enough to
glance around. They were in a small, empty antechamber,
upheld by eight Ionian pillars, with sky-blue walls and
sunlight shining through oval windows with lace curtains.
After the dark of Shadow Valley, the room seemed
extraordinarily bright. The door they had come through had
resumed its usual height. A matching door stood on the
opposite wall.
“It felt like there was an explosion,” he said.
“Shadow Valley is gone,” Jonathan replied. “This door
here …” From his prone position, he pointed in the direction
they had come, “this door is the one we entered from Loft, the
one that opened into Shadow Valley. The valley is gone,
winked out of existence. The house has come together and
closed the gap.”
“Gone?” Carter repeated numbly. “What are the
consequences?”
“We know at least one. Look around, Master Anderson.
Look around. Look behind you. The sun shines through the
window, but we have no shadows.”
From the time Carter awoke, the room had seemed oddly
wrong. Now he understood why. Without shadows, it appeared
flat, two-dimensional.
He crawled to his feet and drew the lace curtains. Beyond
the glass stood a narrow courtyard, with a tall oak at its center.
He could not tell the time of day, for no shadows lay beneath
the tree, nor could he easily judge size or distance without the
contrast of darkness and light.
“Is the whole world like this?”
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 29
