TIME BEING Chapter 7. IF YOU TRAVEL FAR ENOUGH, DO YOU MEET YOURSELF?
Chapter 7. IF YOU TRAVEL FAR ENOUGH, DO YOU MEET YOURSELF?
A dying woman travels through time to significant points in her life, but things are not as she remembers them. Accompanied by a handsome young stranger and her childhood cat, the fate of both past and future now lies in her aged hands.
Sylvan knew she should do something. Wait with the body. Go to the hospital. Talk to the police, the coroner. Those were the things people did when someone suddenly died on the street. But that was in the real world. This world, Sylvan had the strongest feeling, did not run by the same rules.
The serene avenue was quickly turning into a hotbed of chaos—people screaming, keening, embracing one another. Sirens were approaching fast, and once they arrived, she’d be trapped.
Brie did a fast pass around Sylvan’s ankles, then headed down the block. “Come on,” she called over her undulating shoulders. “You heard the man. We have work to do.”
Sylvan stared at Brie and then at Aron, whose body was already beginning to shimmer with ghost light. “Goodbye,” she whispered, though she knew she was addressing an empty shell. Slipping head down into the crowd, she and Brie were soon away.
Sylvan felt shattered, utterly destroyed by this shocking turn of events. It was scary enough to be lost in some bizarre wrinkle of time, but both lost and alone? She had come to think of Aron as the rock in the shifting sand, the tree rooted solid against the storm. What would she do without her guide? How would she survive?
“There is another, you know,” Brie said flatly.
Of course! The magical cat who could walk through decades. Sylvan had little choice but to trust her inter-species companion now that Aron was no more.
As the gray cat led Sylvan along the quaint street with its cafés and shops, Sylvan began to notice things that had eluded her before. The people she met were garbed in an old-fashioned style of suits and dresses. Those who sat at the outdoor tables sipping coffee or wine were reading books, magazines, and newspapers—there was not a cell phone in sight. It seemed strange yet natural and altogether refreshing.
Suddenly Sylvan felt light as a dandelion seed, a woman enjoying a stroll with her cat. That too seemed natural, as if she had done it a hundred times. Now when she thought of Aron, there was no sadness to it.
“He’s not really dead, is he?”
“He is with us,” Brie answered. “We will be together soon.”
Sylvan smiled. All was right with the world.
But she was mistaken. Their environment had begun to shift, and not for the better. No longer the happy, well-dressed club goers, the bright facades. Without realizing, she had stumbled into another part of town where the predominant buildings were plain and sullen gray. Here and there a wooden door painted red or green or blue broke the monotony, but the individuals who slipped soundlessly among them were hunched and bent, hurrying elsewhere as quickly as they could go. A few souls crouched in the vivid doorways or on the sidewalk. Wrapped in coats and blankets despite the summer heat, they curled in on themselves as if trying to disappear.
“Brie,” Sylvan whispered. “Where are we?”
Cat-like, Brie said nothing. She paused only long enough to let the woman catch up with her, then was on the move again. For the next few blocks, that was how they traveled: Brie running ahead, then stopping; running ahead, then stopping.
“Hey,” grunted a voice from what Sylvan had mistaken for a pile of rags by a lamp post. From under a hooded coat, a bright eye peeked, first at Brie, then up at Sylvan. “Hey,” she repeated. “You shouldn’t be here. No good will come of it. No good at all.”
Sylvan was taken aback. Though the voice was soft and rich, the threat stung.
“No, little one,” the woman said as if she could read Sylvan’s mistrust. “It’s not me who would harm you and your pretty cat. But others…”
“What others?”
The woman began to uncurl, the hood sliding back to reveal a tangle of dirty brown hair around an equally filthy face.
“Who knows?” she shot in that full, rich voice, so incongruous from this shriveled creature. “Not everyone is nice, you know.”
Sylvan was beginning to get a bad feeling. Strangely she had felt almost nothing when Aron met his demise on the pretty street, yet in that gathering gloom, the desperation was tangible.
Let’s get out of here, she wanted to cry. Let’s go! but something stopped her. She was there for a reason, even if she had no idea what it was.
“Can you help me?” she asked the crone.
“What’s in it for me, girl?” the woman snapped back.
Sylvan thought. She had nothing but the little dress she wore and her bag containing the red diary, the handkerchief, and the wallet. Grabbing out the wallet, she looked inside—maybe there was money. But as she opened the blue silk flaps, she found it empty—no cash, no cards, no driver’s license or identification, no slips of paper or phone numbers, no tokens, none of the things one collects in a wallet.
Then, in the inside flap, the innermost pouch, down at the very bottom, something sparkled. Drawing it out, she found it to be a single sequin, the kind with facets and a hole in the middle for sewing onto a dress or blouse. She held it up to the streetlight, watching it flash blue.
A gnarled hand came up and snatched the sparkly. “That will do.”
For a moment, Sylvan felt a great loss, as if she were giving up something precious. Maybe it was because she had so little, or maybe the old sequin caused her to recall her past, but she couldn’t bear the thought of parting with it.
She reached out a tentative hand, but the crone slapped it away. “Do you want my help or not?”
The hand dropped to her side. “Yes, I guess I do. “
“Then we should get on with it, shouldn’t we?”
The woman tucked the prize into her bosom, then rose and shed her bulky coat, revealing a second coat of nearly the same drab color and voluminous size. She handed the first one to Sylvan. “Here. Put this on.”
Sylvan took the garment and brought it to her nose. She expected it to smell of the streets, of unwashed bodies, spoiled food, and worse, but all she could detect was a subtly sweet scent, like a field of wild summer daisies.
“Go ahead, it won’t bite.”
Sylvan slipped the coat over her evening dress and buttoned the front. For a moment the insulated heat in the already sultry atmosphere made her lightheaded, but the sensation soon cleared.
“Better,” the woman huffed. “Ready?”
“For what?”
“I’ll take you through the Patch. You’ll be safe on the other side.”
“The Patch?”
The woman made a sweeping gesture. “The Patch. You probably came from the Avenue. People make that mistake every once in a while.” She shook her mop of tangled curls. “Good thing I found you. Not all are so lucky.”
Sylvan was skeptical about who had found whom but didn’t think it worth mentioning.
The woman pulled herself up with the aid of the lamp post and began to shuffle away. Turning back, she called, “Come along. No time to waste. You don’t want to be caught in the Patch when the Midnight comes.”
Sylvan hesitated. Again she thought of Aron. There was something about his death scene that she was missing, but her brain wouldn’t track it. Did she really trust this person whose services she had bought with a single sequin? How could she be sure the crone wouldn’t lead her into more trouble? And what the hell was the Midnight?
Glancing behind her, she could no longer see any sign of the bright avenue. Up ahead Brie pranced after the receding figure. Sylvan sighed. If it’s good enough for the cat, I guess it’s good enough for me.
“Hey,” Sylvan called out. “What’s your name?”
The woman stopped, then turned, a sly smile on her murky face.
“My name is Sylvan.”
Chapter 8. THE MIDNIGHT, coming next Saturday.
For previous chapters, look here.
