Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
“ O h, you’ve gone and done it this time, haven’t you?”
Simeon curled into a tight ball, his arms wrapped protectively around his head, and tried not to scream. Maybe if he didn’t move, it would all go away. He was certain that if he opened his eyes, he’d find himself in Bedlam. Or worse.
A hand settled on his shoulder and he screamed, although at least the sound was muffled by his own body.
“Oh, hush, child. I won’t harm you. I never do harm anyone, although some believe otherwise.”
It was a woman’s voice, cracked with age yet strong, and she had an accent that was neither British nor American. He found it calming, although he couldn’t say why. He remained in a fetal position with his eyes closed.
“ This is what happens when mortals play with things they shouldn’t,” she said. “You make so many problems for yourselves. You’re lucky we find it somewhat endearing. It’s like when my kitten gets herself hopelessly tangled in a ball of wool. ”
Simeon managed to shake off enough terror and confusion to feel mildly offended. “’M not a kitten.”
Her laughter was pleasant. “No, dear, you’re a rook. Why don’t you have a nice flight? That will help put your poor head to rights.”
As soon as she said it, he realized what a good idea it was and how very much he wanted to do exactly that. He shivered into his bird form, flapped his wings, and took to the air, going higher and higher until he found a warm current that allowed him to soar. Only then did he take note of where he was.
The terrain was composed of gentle green hills laid with crops and dotted with stands of trees. No towns or roads or any other signs of people, although surely someone must be tending those regimented crops. A sea glittered on the horizon, like silver brocade edging a garment, but he banked to the right instead.
Although he would have preferred to not fly alone, he also recognized that he was in no good state for company. Memories crowded his head, many of them contradicting one another, all of them fragmented. He was in the London of his childhood; he was in Chicago atop an impossibly tall building. He was coughing his lungs out in a gutter, falling from a window, hunched in a cage, burning in a fire. He was a child, a man, a bird. Simeon, Lewis. He was everything and nothing all at once.
“You are never nothing,” said a voice in his head. The voice was as warm as sunbaked soil and he knew it. It knew him. It began to recite a poem:
For him I sing,
I raise the present on the past,
(As some perennial tree out of its roots, the present on the past,)
With time and space I him dilate and fuse the immortal laws,
To make himself by them the law unto himself .
Simeon flew faster. And now instead of flying away he was flying to , although he didn’t quite know where. He started to panic again, realizing he was lost. His wings were growing tired, and while the land below him was pretty enough, it wasn’t home. He didn’t belong here.
“Gnothi seauton.” That was the old woman again.
“Wh-what?” croaked Simeon.
“Gnothi seauton. Know thyself. Pythia didn’t come up with that, although some give her credit for it. Honestly, it’s nothing more than common sense. If you want to succeed, you must know thyself. Who are you, child?”
His answer came as a raucous scream, “I don’t know!”
“Of course you do. Open your eyes.”
He was going to protest that they were open, thanks very much, but when he blinked, the landscape below him shifted until it looked like a vast paper map with all the place names written in an alphabet he couldn’t read. He dove down in hopes of recognizing something, and when he got quite low he saw that it was, in fact, the Roman alphabet, and then he was looking at every place he’d ever been: every country, state, shire, and city; every street; every building he’d set foot in. But they were set out in no logical order, so that Chinkapin Grove was next to San Gimignano, which was adjacent to Beaverton-Hillsdale Highway. He could land now, he supposed, but what if he chose the wrong place? What if there was no right place—for him, at any rate.
But no. There was that sunshine voice again: “ Prodigal! you have given me love!.... therefore I to you give love !”
Crow.
That was Crow, and Simeon knew he did have a right place, and that was with Crow.
A purple line appeared on the map below him, like a short road. He swooped lower and saw that Crow stood at the beginning of that road, smiling up at him and waving .
In all of the conflicting memories tumbling through Simeon’s brain, all of the what-ifs and could-have-beens, Crow was there. Often not in person—and usually Simeon didn’t know who he was—but he was nonetheless a constant presence. A ghost of joyous memories and a promise of a bright future.
“I am Crow Rapp’s mate,” said Simeon with absolute certainty. Below him, Crow pumped his arms as if in victory but gestured that Simeon should continue flying along the purple line.
Simeon didn’t want to leave him, but then he realized he’d never leave him, at least not in spirit. He never had. And although Simeon was Crow’s lover, he was more than that.
All right, then who was Simeon?
Images appeared as he flew. An orphan living in the depths of poverty. A thief. Occasionally a whore. Yes, these were part of who he was.
But he was also a son who was loved by his family, even if only briefly. He was a brother. A friend. He was a survivor. He was… clever, wasn’t he? Or so Crow liked to claim. Ah, but Simeon was also impulsive and prone to using his charm rather than his brains.
The purple road ran onward and Simeon followed, cawing at the aspects of himself as they appeared below. He was a man and a rook: two-natured. He was curious. Kind, but with a temper that sometimes flared. Given a job, he worked hard at it. He kept promises. He made foolish decisions at times. He accepted the consequences of those decisions. He was impatient. He liked stories and sex and good food and adventure. He longed for family. He was loyal. A little vain. He was strong, but when overwhelmed, he might break down in tears or simply avoid the unpleasantness. He’d been stupid and selfish in his actions with Bran, but he’d also really tried to do the right thing by giving him the box. Simeon was headstrong and didn’t always heed good advice. He was poorly educated but had taught himself a great deal. He was an optimist who rarely complained. He adapted easily to change.
He was flawed.
He was loved.
He had briefly been Lewis Frugis but was now entirely Simeon Bell. Who was, all things considered, a person of value. And not because he could fly, and not because he sometimes possessed the ability to play with time.
He was worthy.
“I am Simeon Bell!” he shouted, and he flew a series of loop-de-loops to prove it.
The purple road rose up to meet him, becoming a thick carpet the color of plums. And as he landed, carved wooden walls formed around him, and a ceiling with painted beams settled in overhead. He didn’t feel trapped, however—there were large windows with gauzy curtains and vistas of the sea—and when he shimmered back into human form, he found a set of clothing waiting for him on an overstuffed armchair: jeans and a white collared shirt, both of which fit perfectly. He sat in the chair and ran fingers through his hair in hopes of taming it.
A hidden door opened and a woman stepped inside, tall and straight-backed, her silver hair arranged in elaborate braids. She wore a long white gown covered with tiny designs in purple thread, but when Simeon tried to discern the designs, they squiggled and shifted like snakes. On a chain around her neck was a pair of silver scissors, and she carried a teapot and two china cups.
Simeon started to rise but she shook her head. “Sit, child. You’ve had a trying time.”
“I… I know you, ma’am.”
“Of course you do. All mortals do, eventually. You may call me Atty.” She set the cups on a low table in front of Simeon, filled them with tea, and sat gracefully in the chair opposite him. “Well, what do you think of Simeon Bell, now that you’re well acquainted?”
“I quite like him,” he replied with a grin. “He could use some improvements, I expect.”
“All mortals can. Depending on your theology, even deities may have shortcomings.”
They sipped the tea, which tasted of flowers and honey. The pile of memories was still in his head, but it had been tidied and tucked into a folder. Only the most important memories remained in play.
“Is Crow safe?” he asked.
She shrugged. “He can be.”
He sighed, knowing that would have to suffice for now. “And Bran?”
“You care about him after what he did?”
“After what we did, I reckon. That prophecy was about both of us. He couldn’t have destroyed anything without my help, but I wouldn’t have done it on my own.”
“He did a great deal of harm.”
“Aye.” Another sip, warm and soothing. “He was looking out for himself, which is fair enough since nobody else had ever looked out for him. It was wrong but not evil.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to defend Bran, but he was being honest in his assessment. Besides, throughout the what-ifs, he’d had some sense that Bran… well, maybe he didn’t care about Simeon. He sought him out primarily because he needed help. But at least he wasn’t indifferent, and that was something.
“Ma’am, am I finally done with prophecies?”
She gazed at him levelly. “ Terrible, terrible things the wise bird-augur stirs. ”
“Pardon? ”
“Oedipus, child. I would think that you’d be familiar with that play, at least.”
“I know the basics.” He set down his teacup. “Is there any way I can be reunited with Crow? I don’t care where or when.”
“And what about your brother?”
“He can rot.”
She seemed amused. “I thought you said he wasn’t evil.”
“He’s not. But the things he did… the pain he caused. Even when there were cages and nearly everyone was dead….” He shuddered so violently that he was glad he wasn’t holding the cup. “Even when he saw those horrors, he was still trying to muck about with the past. He hadn’t learned a bleeding thing.”
Atty acknowledged this with a movement of her eyebrows. “You may choose whatever you like. My sisters and I do not make decisions on behalf of others.”
“But you don’t mind a bit of, erm, assisting when it comes to Crow and me.” He hoped that wasn’t going too far; he was certain that making Atty angry would be a bad idea.
“We’re bored. You’re interesting. It passes the time.” Her smile revealed very straight white teeth. “Speaking of which, Bran still possesses the box, does he not?”
Simeon opened his mouth to offer an irritable reply, but then the import of what she’d said hit him. If Bran still had the box, he could still change things. Simeon and Crow, and gods knew how many others, could be dragged through endless new hells until Bran gave up… or disintegrated. Where would Simeon ultimately be stranded? In a cage, praying for death? Broken in a Mayfair garden? Watching a fair-haired boy walk out of a tent, never to be seen again?
And what would become of Bran? Simeon hadn’t at all fancied that falling-apart sensation when the box had been his, and he didn’t wish that on Bran .
“It was meant to be his,” Simeon said miserably.
She cocked her head. “Was it?”
“Bran said our mother let him play with it when he was young. And it opened for him, not me.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
Atty pasted on an unconvincing look of innocence and shrugged. Simeon made a Crow-like scowl and crossed his arms. “I wish your sister—she is your sister, yeah?—never brought me the damned thing.”
“Oh, don’t blame Clara. She’s perhaps a bit impetuous at times, but since that’s a trait you share, I’m sure you can empathize. At any rate, it was bound to find its way to you eventually. Items such as that have a hard time remaining separate from their owners. You should be grateful it found you at a time and place when you could accomplish things with it.”
“Accomplish!” he sputtered. “I’ve done nothing but lose Crow, gather a host of miserable experiences, and help Bran destroy all our people and himself.”
She laughed. “Well, those are impressive accomplishments!” Before he could respond angrily, she shook a finger at him. “And you’re forgetting the lesson I taught you and Crow.”
The lesson. She had told him and Crow a great many things, only some of which made sense and many of which referred to texts written by blokes who’d been dead for two millennia. Then Simeon’s gaze settled on the scissors she wore, and he understood. “Until the thread is cut, hope remains.”
“Very good, child. It seems you were paying attention after all.”
“It seems to me that the thread’s been bloody well cut, ma’am. ”
She looked disappointed, as if he were a schoolboy who’d failed an exam. “Where do you believe you are, right now?”
Simeon had been carefully avoiding this very question. He looked around. It was a very nice room, not large but with comfortable furniture, shelves stuffed with books and spools of thread, and a fireplace with painted tiles. It was the sort of place he could imagining curling up with Crow on a cold, damp day and alternating between snacks, stories, naps, and lovemaking. “Too nice by far to be hell, I reckon.”
“Oh, some parts of Hades are quite pleasant, especially in summer when the sun and heat become too tiring aboveground. But we are not there. Which is fortunate for you because you are not dead.”
Perhaps he should have been relieved to know that, but he’d learned very recently that there were indeed fates worth than death. “Then I’ve no idea where we are.”
“But you’ve been here before, several times.” She refilled her cup and then his and took a sip before continuing. “This is a liminal space, one that is, quite literally, neither here nor there. It exists yet it does not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not meant to. Mortals don’t generally come here. My sisters and I do—I find it a relaxing retreat—and so do Crow’s people.”
For a stupid moment Simeon thought she meant Aunt Helen, who was more likely to be digging in her garden than gadding about the universe. But then Simeon realized she meant Crow’s grandmother’s people. The angels—although Crow became uncomfortable if Simeon called them that.
Finally, his overtaxed brain put the pieces together. “Crow’s dreams.”
Atty gave him a bright smile. “Precisely. He occasionally travels here in his sleep, and because you two are so close, he often brings you with him. ”
Simeon shot to his feet, heart racing. “Is he here now?”
“I’m afraid not. This time it is I who am responsible.”
“Oh.” He sat down again, not quite able to manage a thank-you. “So I’m dreaming, and really I’m back in that cage, and….” He clamped his mouth shut and curled in on himself.
“You are here , child. Where you go next is a matter for discussion.” She put down her teacup and pulled a loose purple thread from her gown. She played with it absently, alternately twining it around her fingers and smoothing it straight.
“I’d like to go wherever Crow is. Please, ma’am.”
“I could send you to him right now. At precisely the time and place where you parted. But what would be the outcome?”
“I don’t….” He stopped himself because he did . He knew exactly what the outcome would be. “The same as the first time.”
“Most likely, yes. It’s a matter of probabilities, of course, but if all the variables remain the same, mostly likely so will the results.”
He couldn’t face that again. He would lose his mind permanently. “Then what do you suggest, ma’am?”
“I can’t. Too much?—”
“Too much meddling.”
“Precisely.” She patted her gown and the thread she’d been playing with disappeared. Simeon couldn’t tell whether she’d tucked it into an invisible pocket or if it had magically woven itself back into the fabric. “You must make your own choice. But you need not rush your decision. This place exists outside of time, and you’ve had an experience that would destroy most mortals. Get some rest.” She waved a hand and against one wall a bed appeared, piled high with pillows and bright quilts .
A thought occurred to him then. “But what about… everyone else? Bran’s mucking about has affected loads more people than just me.”
“Yes, but…. Forgive me. It’s difficult to talk about these matters. Mortals’ languages simply do not possess the proper terminology. Picture yourself walking along a road. You come to a juncture where the road branches in several directions. You choose one of them. As soon as you step foot on that path, the others disappear. They don’t just cease to exist—they never existed at all. Can you imagine this?”
Simeon thought for a few moments. “Mostly.”
“That’s good enough. Every time your brother travels in time, he steps onto a path. Nobody else on that new road remembers any others because, for them, they never existed. But Bran traveled on some of those roads before backtracking, so he remembers them.”
“Even though they never existed.” Simeon had a headache.
“They existed for him. And because you are connected so strongly to Bran, and to the events that led to him, as you say, mucking about , and because you are also connected to the box itself, you remember.”
He rubbed his scalp. “This is appalling.”
“Very much so. Which is why mortals should not travel in time,” she added sternly. “And it’s why your parents created the box in the first place.”
His head snapped up so fast he heard his neck pop. “What?”
She pressed her lips together, appearing to consider something, then gave a small nod as if she’d decided. “You mortals think poorly when you’re hungry. Eat, and then tuck yourself in. I shall return to tell a tale.”
“I’m a bit old for bedtime stories, yeah?”
“Old? You are an egg newly laid. And nobody is ever too old for bedtime stories. ”
She stood and swept out of the room, and when Simeon turned back to the little table, it was covered in small dishes: olives, walnuts, chopped cabbage in wine vinegar, dates, dried fruits, and several kinds of cheese. There was a small loaf of rustic bread with olive oil and honey for dipping. He hadn’t felt hungry until he started to nibble, at which point he realized he was ravenous. He ate everything and then wiped his hands on a damp linen square that smelled of lemons.
Pleasantly full, he strolled to the window and looked outside. The sun was directly overhead—where it had been when he first entered the room. The sky was an impossibly clear blue, as if it had been painted by an inexpert Romantic artist. Long rows of corn, waving in a gentle breeze, extended all the way to the horizon, where there were low tree-covered hills. He saw no living creatures, not even a buzzing fly.
He could launch himself out the window and, unlike in that nightmare what-if where the Frugises had pushed him, he would soar. Maybe he could spend forever in this dream space. But then he’d never see Crow again. And besides, that bed looked mighty tempting.
Simeon skimmed out of his clothes, folded them, and set them on a chair. The mattress was so high that, despite his long legs, he had to scramble a bit to clamber on top. Ah, the sheets were smooth and cool, caressing his skin; the pillows were plush and the blankets as soft as suede. Within moments he was settled comfortably and yawning wide enough to crack his jaw.
When Atty entered this time, she was dressed—entirely improbably—in a pair of lavender flannel pajamas printed with cartoon images of mice sewing. “It’s comfortable,” she explained, perhaps a bit defensively.
“And looks lovely on you. ”
“No use trying to charm me,” she said, although she looked pleased.
She sat beside the bed on a tall chair, which hadn’t been there a moment earlier, and the sun set immediately, replaced by a bright full moon that somehow didn’t obscure the stars.
“Thank you for the meal,” said Simeon.
“Sometimes a simple repast is best. Are you ready for your story?”
“Yes please. Is it true?”
“Philosophers have spent over two thousand years arguing over the meaning of the word truth , as well as how one ascertains what is true.”
Simeon settled back on his pillow, figuring that this was the only answer he’d get. “Right. I’m ready, please.”
“Once upon a time—isn’t that an excellent way to begin this tale? So apt!—there were two rooks who married against the advice of their brethren. Each of the pair possessed the rare gift to see across time, and rooks know that the offspring of such a union might be… problematic. But they loved each other, and when has love ever bowed to cold logic?”
He had to nod at that. He’d done some damned foolish things because he loved Crow.
“This couple had a son,” she continued. “He was vigorous and healthy. But his parents recognized within him a strong potential to see across time. He wouldn’t be able to use this until he was much older, but the power already lay nascent within him. His parents used some ancient methods to take his power and bind it within a physical essence. Not all of it. He would retain some tiny dregs. But most. Their plan?—”
“You can do that?”
She waved an impatient hand. “Of course. Some might call it magic, but that’s only because they don’t understand it. In truth, it’s science. May I continue?”
“Aye. Sorry.”
“Their plan was to keep his powers from him until he possessed the maturity and good judgment to use them wisely. They didn’t inform him about any of this; he was much too young. Then, a few years later, they had a second son. Also strong and healthy, and also imbued with the powers his brother possessed. In fact, the parents believed that each of the brothers was exceptionally talented in this regard. The parents placed the younger son’s powers into that same physical essence.”
Simeon sat up. “Why not a separate one?”
“Do you think that these objects are so easy to come by?”
For all he knew, they could be found for a ha’penny at the nearest leaving shop, but he didn’t say so. “One object. A tiny watch inside a box.”
“Just so.”
“That means it’s not just Bran’s.”
Atty smiled at him. “You have equal claims. But perhaps you can see the problem: two strong powers combined create one that is far more potent than any one mortal should possess. This single power is strong enough to allow more than just sight through time. It permits movement.”
Simeon leaned back again with a sigh. “It was bloody stupid of them.”
“Yes. They didn’t know better. And they did it out of love, you see. They wanted to protect their sons.”
Lot of good that had done them, but Simeon didn’t point that out. They had tried, and that did provide some comfort. As he’d seen in his travels down Bran’s alternate paths, their parents had loved them. In difficult situations, they’d done their best.
“If the box is mine as well?— ”
“It’s not your possession, child. It is you in the same way your heart is.”
“Fine. Why would it open only for Bran?”
“It opened for both of you.”
Shit. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
“Ma’am, how do I?—”
She stood and swiped at her legs as if brushing away crumbs. “My story is over. The rest is for others to tell. Get some rest, Simeon.”
And before he could protest, she was gone.