Chainbreaker (Timekeeper)

by Tara Sim

  Bell chewed on his lips. Sheepishly, he shook his head.

  “Sit down, then.”

  Bell plopped down next to Castor, who sniggered as Bell poked him hard in the ribs.

  “Chronos,” Beele said, resuming his pacing, “was born when the universe was breathing its first gasps. He is said to be the father of time. He understood how it moved and gave it shape. It had a will of its own, you see. Time is a flighty, complex thing; it will go in any direction, all at once, without control.

  “Chronos saw this and set the earth on a straight track forward. One small slip, one pattern unraveled, and earth’s time would tangle together like a ball of twine. We would go forward and backward, experience the same day in ten different ways, witness our births as we experienced our deaths. Chronos is the giver of time, the founder of what we know as history.”

  Beele stopped to stare out at the ocean for a moment, hands held clasped behind his back. “But it was too much, even for Chronos. Weary and losing control, he cut off four of his fingers, which grew into the four other Gaian gods. Aetas and Oceana were born first—in that, Bell, you were correct. Chronos gave Aetas power over time, and Aetas went to earth with Oceana to be closer to his new power.”

  Beele took a deep breath and turned back to his students. “What you all felt in the sea during your initiation was more than time. It was Aetas allowing you to see and sense it for yourself, as he does. Time is not a tapestry, cleanly woven; it is far more complicated. You will do well to remember and respect that.”

  Over the ground, Castor’s hand had found Bell’s, their fingers twined together.

  “Sir?” A girl had raised her hand. “If Aetas is the one controlling time, then how come only time servants can feel it? My sister and parents can’t, but I can.”

  Beele was rarely defeated by a question, and it showed in his frown. “That, we do not know. It’s one of the great questions that has no answer. A theory, of course, is that Aetas requires only some of us to help him regulate time over all the world. It’s too big a task for one being, even if that being is a god. So we offer ourselves to Aetas, aware of him always. That is what keeps this world turning.”

  Abigail had another fever. Their mother had gone to help an elderly aunt and their father was working late, so Bell sat by her bedside throughout the day, spooning broth into her mouth, returning to the hearth to boil water for tea. He went out to pick herbs, plants that his mother and her mother before her had been taught to use as cures for ailments.

  When Abigail was awake, he told her stories of his lessons. She loved to hear about the ocean and the waves and how it felt to be immersed in the water.

  “Time was everywhere at once, and it was so large, and so frightening. And so lovely.” He brushed the hair off of her forehead. “I wish you could feel it, Abi.”

  “Take me to the ocean, then.”

  “I will when you’re better.”

  As the sun began to set, he heard a knock at the door. Castor waited on the other side, a small, wilted daisy in his hand. “It looked better before I picked it,” Castor said, handing him the drooping flower.

  “That’s why they’re supposed to stay in the ground.” Bell took the flower and twirled it by its stem, grinning. “Would you like to come in for supper?”

  Castor lifted a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. “Baked this morning.”

  They made a meal of the bread, fresh butter, dried apples, and the last of the crumbly cheese Bell’s mother had bought at market. He knew his parents wouldn’t mind; the past two years had seen Castor come and go from the house on a regular basis.

  If his parents knew the truth of their relationship, however, it would be quite a different matter.

  Castor helped clear the table. “You know, I haven’t seen you in a couple days. I’d hoped for another sort of greeting.”

  “Such as?”

  Castor wrapped his arms around him. Bell returned the embrace, leaning in until they were cheek to cheek.

  “I missed you,” Castor whispered.

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “You’re so cruel. It’s been ages.”

  “A generation.”

  “A century.”

  “An olympiad.”

  “A beelenium.”

  They turned their heads and kissed. Bell felt Castor’s smile against his own. He kissed him again and again until those lips softened and parted.

  A small voice called down the stairs.

  “Abigail heard you,” Bell said, a bit breathless.

  “I want to see her.”

  Castor was quite popular with Abigail. He made her laugh and usually brought small treats, like a sweetmeat or a game. Castor plucked the sorry flower from the table and bounded up the stairs, Bell following at a slower pace.

  “For you, my lady.” Castor knelt, presenting the wilted daisy to Abigail. She giggled and took the flower with a faint blush.

  “I thought that was mine,” Bell complained.

  Castor raised his dark eyebrows. “You didn’t appreciate it nearly enough. Now, if you’d had that reaction, I would have reconsidered.”

  “Stop teasing my brother,” Abigail scolded. “Tell me a story instead.”

  “If you insist.” Castor sat on the bed and Bell dragged over the stool. “How about the story of the three little pigs?”

  “No.”

  “Rumpelstiltskin?”

  “No! One I haven’t heard before.”

  “Hmm.” Castor rubbed his chin. Bell noticed that Castor sometimes had a vague shadow of stubble along his jaw and just under his nose. It made his upper lip feel prickly when they kissed, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he rather liked it.

  “How about I make up a story?” Castor gestured to Bell on the stool. “We both will.”

  Abigail clapped her hands in delight. “Yes!”

  Their eyes met, each waiting for the other to start. Castor’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “There was once a boy …” he began.

  “Who received a royal summons,” Bell continued.

  “To see the princess of another country.”

  “But that country was at war.”

  “So he became a soldier.”

  “And fought for whichever side needed him most.”

  “He tried to make it to the princess.”

  “Because she waited for him always in a tower of the castle.”

  “And she couldn’t leave.”

  “For fear that he would never find her.”

  “But there was a battle in the very field that lay before the castle.”

  “And in that battle was the boy.”

  “A sword pierced him, and he fell to the ground, injured and bleeding.”

  “The princess saw, and feared for his life.”

  “She didn’t want to leave the tower, but she knew now that she must.”

  “She dressed as a soldier and fought in the boy’s stead.”

  “She stood over him, swinging her sword at anyone who came near.”

  “And when their side won, she dragged him into the castle to be healed.”

  “When the boy woke, he saw the princess splattered with blood, and looking more beautiful than he had ever imagined.”

  “The princess kissed him, and they were very happy.”

  The boys sat smiling at each other, Abigail almost forgotten until she cleared her throat. “And? Did they get married?”

  “I suppose so,” Castor said. “If you want them to.”

  “I want them to.”

  “Then they did.”

  Abigail said she liked the story very much. Castor tried to wheedle her into telling one of her own, but she fell into a coughing fit. Bell hurried to get her a cup of water. By the time he returned, her face was red with the strain. He stood staring at his sister’s emaciated frame, taking in her hollow cheeks and thinning hair. Castor rubbed her arm and asked if she was all right. But all Bell could do was think about when they’d believed s
he was getting better, that maybe her body was becoming stronger.

  All lies.

  He walked to the dresser on his side of the room and, opening the top drawer, searched for a new handkerchief for her. There were no clean ones. He closed his eyes tight and held onto the dresser’s surface.

  When he opened his eyes again, he caught his own face in the chipped mirror. Blue eyes, as blue as his sister’s, stared back at him. A few freckles stubbornly clung to his pale nose. His brown hair was getting shaggy in the back; his mother would insist on cutting it soon.

  Something moved in the mirror. Bell did not turn, instead watching Castor’s reflection as it came closer.

  “Come back,” Castor whispered. “She needs to see you.”

  “But I can’t see her. Not like this. Not anymore.” Bell’s eyes filled with tears, distorting their reflections.

  Castor touched his arm. “She relies on you so much. You have to be strong for her. And I promise I’ll help in any way I can.” Bell watched as Mirror Castor leaned their heads together, arms encircling his body.

  “I’ll always look after her,” Castor whispered. “I promise, Colton.”

  The world came roaring back, bringing a fresh wave of pain with it. Colton doubled over, choking on a scream. His side was on fire, his chest wound too tight. The cogs at his back flared, sensing his distress, and the pinprick of Enfield in his mind grew more distant than ever.

  He rubbed at his chest with small, panicked moans. They echoed off the metal floor, surrounding him with the sound of his own fear. He didn’t worry about anyone hearing him. In that moment, the enormity of the world was forgotten, and he was the only thing in existence.

  Slowly, he sat up and leaned against the hull. He covered his eyes with a shaking hand, then his mouth, then his chest again.

  He had wondered. Had tried to evade the thought—it had seemed too impossible, too absurd—but he couldn’t ignore it any longer, staring him in the face the same way he’d stared at his own reflection.

  They weren’t dreams. They weren’t memories of someone else’s life.

  They were his memories.

  Akash’s hands were steady on the controls as he guided the Silver Hawk through the air. He had graciously offered Daphne the copilot seat, while Lieutenant Crosby and his soldiers sat in the back.

  Daphne was grateful. She loved the open space between earth and sky, a space that felt honest, true. She would have gladly lived the rest of her life in the clouds, close to the sun.

  “You look as though you’re enjoying yourself,” Akash commented.

  “It’s been a long time since I could relax on an aircraft. The last two times I was trying to keep Danny calm.”

  Akash laughed. It was a clear-ringing sound, all bells and confidence. “You’re a good friend to him.”

  Daphne raised an eyebrow at her reflection in the window. “Friend.” It was strange to think that she and Danny Hart had become friends. But it would be cold—and untrue—to deny it. “I suppose we are friends.”

  Akash smiled. He had a strong jaw with a hint of dark stubble, and his aviator goggles sat perched above a nose slightly too large for his face. He’d offered her a pair before they’d taken off, but she had politely declined, wanting the full experience—glare and all.

  She remembered Danny’s warning that the rebel airship could be coming for her. She sat with her back straight, eyes often searching the surrounding expanse of sky. But there was no sign of that behemoth ship.

  For now.

  She watched Akash fly the craft with ease, like it had become more routine to him than walking. Lights blinked along the control panel, and Akash occasionally asked her to flip a switch.

  “Would you like to try?” Akash gestured to the controls.

  Daphne reined in her rush of excitement, keeping her face carefully blank. “Why not?”

  “Excellent. It’s really not too difficult, once you understand the basics. Now, let us say we want to go higher. If you—”

  She pulled the center stick up and the plane pitched higher. She leveled it out and then gently pressed on the rudder bar, yawing them in a zigzag pattern. Releasing the center stick, she glanced over at Akash. His mouth was still open as if to give her instructions, but all that came out now was an incredulous laugh.

  “You know how to fly?”

  “Not by myself, but I’ve sat in cockpits before.”

  “Amazing, Miss Richards. I never would have expected someone like you to know about planes.”

  “Oh?”

  He must have heard the frost in her voice, for his smile slipped. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense. It’s just that here, in India, our women are not pilots. They may work on the rail lines or as ghadi wallahs, but even then, those women are often treated with disdain.”

  “I understand.” It seemed that no matter where she went, working women would always invite scorn.

  Akash nodded. “I tried to teach my sister how to fly, but she stuck up her nose at it. I’m fascinated by her work with clocks, but she never seemed to be at all interested in my planes. At first, I was hurt, but when I thought about it more, I suspect she wanted to avoid the scandal of being both a ghadi wallah and a pilot. She hears enough talk as it is.”

  Daphne thought of the looks Meena drew in the cantonment, the same looks Daphne herself had drawn when she walked down the halls of the Mechanics Affairs building. She felt a kindred frustration with the Indian girl, an anger that, despite constantly being buried, still grew roots.

  “How did you learn how to fly?” she asked.

  “Our father has a close friend who’s in the good graces of the British officers. He learned to fly some years ago, and the British took him on as a messenger. He invested here and there, and came to own a small plane. When I was younger he took me and my sister up in that plane. Meena cried, but I loved being in the air, so he gave me lessons.

  “I started working when I was ten, first for a merchant in the city. Then, when I was eighteen, as an aerial messenger for the cantonment officers. When I turned twenty last year I realized I’d saved enough to get my own craft.” He patted the side of the Silver Hawk fondly. “With a little investment from uncle-ji and father, of course.

  “And you, Miss Richards? How did you come to know so much of flying?”

  She stared out the window at a shimmering river below, a serpentine vein in the earth’s skin. “My father was a pilot. He took me up whenever he was off-duty.”

  She had always been happiest in the air, far from the ground and the worries that found her there. Her mother had balked at the notion of both her husband and daughter going up in an aircraft. Daphne remembered, even now, the crescent shapes her mother’s nails had left in her skin, anxiously digging into her cheeks and arms.

  After a brief pause, Akash asked, “Is he no longer with you?”

  “He passed a few years ago.”

  “I am very sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She kept her lips slightly parted, wanting to tell him: He was one of you. But she couldn’t make herself say the words. It would feel like a lie, somehow.

  An awkward silence brewed in the cockpit. Daphne listened to the low murmuring of the soldiers in the back, wondering how much of the conversation they had heard.

  “Urdu bol sakte hain?” Akash asked suddenly. Do you speak Urdu?

  “Sirf thodi si.” Only a little.

  “Kyaa aap ko yahaan achchhaa lagaa?” Do you like it here?

  “Haan.” She paused to think of something else to say. “Meri Urdu … kharaab hai?” My Urdu is not very good.

  “Not at all! You are very good already.”

  “I need to practice.”

  “We are practicing now.”

  They spent the rest of the trip speaking in fragmented Urdu and Hindi, Akash laughing at her accent and gently correcting her botched words. They tried to muffle their laughter when, at her insistence, he quietly taught her a few swear words. Daphne didn’t want Crosb
y to overhear and have a conniption.

  They landed outside Lucknow half an hour later, just before sunset. Daphne was disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to go to the clock tower today. She had an itch in her belly that begged her to go as soon as possible. But when she climbed out of the Silver Hawk, ignoring Crosby’s offered hand, she could tell that time was running smoothly. She could sense the fibers weaving in and out, straight and orderly. Time didn’t feel sharp here as it had in Khurja.

  Still, her scalp prickled when she remembered the report that suspicious people had been seen near the tower at night.

  Horse-drawn carts called tongas were waiting for them. Akash hung back to take care of his aircraft as Lieutenant Crosby led Daphne to their transport. As if Crosby could read her restless thoughts, he told her, “We’ll get you to your rooms and settle you in. You can see the tower in the morning.”

  She knew it would be useless to protest. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into one of the tongas accompanied by Crosby and a sepoy—Partha, the one who was often in Captain Harris’s company—and it took off for Lucknow. Craning her head around, she spotted Akash watching them trundle away. He waved.

  Well, here I am, she thought as they rolled toward the massive city. No airship attack. She found that a little strange, but decided not to dwell on it, fearing doing so would somehow make it come to pass.

  She had heard Lucknow called the Golden City of the East. Looking at the metropolis stretching before her, she could easily believe it. Sunset illuminated the endless rooftops, the light striking the tops of large, gleaming buildings in a display of dazzling colors. The roar of the crowds could be heard even at a distance. The river she had spotted from the plane ran through the city, dividing it in two.

  “No doubt you’ve heard about this city back home,” Crosby drawled at her side.

  “Once or twice.” She glanced at Partha, who kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. She cleared her throat. “It was besieged during the uprising.”

  “Yes, indeed. The infamous Siege of Lucknow. After that annoying business with the Enfield rifles, the Oudh and Bengal troops broke into open rebellion. The British troops had to defend the residency here in the city for quite some time, enduring all manner of attacks until the rebels could be driven out. They even had to fight underground through months of sickness and dwindling supplies. Since then, we’ve not had a problem.” He glanced pointedly at the sepoy, who caught his look. “Disgraceful, isn’t it, Partha?”