CHAPTER TWO
News at the fair typically spreads slowly, like a daily paper passed hand to hand. That is, unless said news concerns the giant time-carousel that looms dark like a dragon scale charred in a furnace, in which case word arrives at every corner all at once.
It is chaos.
“Has this ever happened before?” Beam asks.
Around us, ghosts of all shapes and sizes examine the poisoned web of time, and each passing comment only ascends on the scale of hysteria.
To make matters worse, the carousel’s conscience has awoken from its slumber, and the resulting energy is a combination of a crotchety old man being tormented by the neighborhood’s children and a yowling house cat adjusting to daylight savings.
The carousel doesn’t communicate with words, per say, but its moods and desires are felt by every occupant.
At the moment, I’m having trouble distinguishing between its turbulent energy and my own heart-pounding fear, both exacerbated by one another like a classic biological positive feedback cycle.
Geneva attempts to herd the masses with snippy comments ranging from “do not step on the carousel” to “do not put that thread of time in your mouth.”
Meanwhile, Everest stares pensively into the distance, and it’s a look I know all too well. “I’m going to go check on something.”
“Excuse me?” I can’t believe this man. “The annual demon poker tournament is not more important than this.”
He leans forward and flicks my nose. “That’s already happened. But there’s a culinary event that these trolls are hosting–”
“Everest!”
He grins. “I’m joking. No need to miss me already; I’ll be back soon.”
“What does ‘soon’ mean?”
Nothing teaches you how senseless the concept of time is like befriending an immortal. Today, I understand why Everest, a time god, does not operate by the same rules of punctuality as I do; but young Ryka? Not so much.
“Soon means soon,” he says with a knowing smirk. “By your standards.”
He knows as well as I do that I won’t be holding my breath.
Everest has a tendency to come and go as he pleases; coming when he has his own whims to satisfy, and going when things at the fair get unusually tricky.
He has a kind heart, but the weather’s more dependable than him.
When I encountered my first bout of time rot, I’d gone to him, hoping he would show me the ropes of this place.
After all, I was a medical student left with a quantum problem that would leave the top physicists tormented by nightmares.
To my surprise, he’d agreed, only to be gone the day we planned to approach the carousel together.
I still remember the moment he finally returned.
“I’m so sorry, doc; I lost track of time,” he’d said, his hair sticking out at odd angles, eyes ablaze with a clear sense of delight.
This excuse may have been acceptable had he been late by an hour, or even a few hours. But no. Everest had been gone months.
Worse, he hadn’t even realized it. Not only had I fixed the issue myself – with the assistance of an anxious Ender and an exceptionally eager Beam – but I’d dealt with numerous rots since.
And I’ve learned that Everest “losing track of time” was less an anomaly and more a pattern, and something I’d just had to accept.
“Fine, I’ve got things handled here.” I hope.
“Soon,” Everest repeats, walking backwards. His voice carries a hint of a smile, now shadowed by the trees. “You’ll see!”
“Do you think he’s going to call the others?” one of the ghosts groans, and a chorus of distraught voices follow.
Everest is one of twelve gods of time and, shockingly, I’ve never met a single one of his eleven siblings.
There are other distant relatives who deal with matters of chaos, mythology, and the whole gamut of systems that govern the natural laws of the universe.
It’s safe to say that the time gods dislike the fair nearly as much as its occupants despise them, and the battles between the gods to decide who takes the next rotation managing the fair are historic.
Everest has been the favorite by far and has thankfully stuck around longer than his shift.
The few visits from the others have been characterized to me as “wrestling with a viper” (Geneva) and “finding raisins in a chocolate chip cookie” (Beam).
“They don’t want to deal with us,” I reassure the ghosts, who crowd around me in a state of palpable worry.
Truth be told, I’d go to the other gods if they were remotely helpful.
This level of rot is unprecedented; if left untreated, timelines could disintegrate, threatening the existence of the universe.
But I don’t want to freak everyone out, not when I’ve barely investigated.
“And we can fix this ourselves, the way we always do.”
Some of them mutter in agreement, but it isn’t enough. I need to find answers. And fast.
“What do we do?” Beam whispers.
Ender’s lying on the ground, poking and prodding at the carousel, but at least he’s not attempting to dive back in, as he first insisted.
It’s too early to delve into another dimension – we wait at least a few days before putting our bodies (solid or phantom) – through that level of stress.
Thankfully, no one’s able to access the carousel without me.
And I’m not going in there when it looks like a diseased fruit.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” I say, marching towards the only place that may offer hope.
“I’m sure you messed something up during our trip,” Ender mutters, trailing behind.
“Me?” Beam exclaims. “You’re the one who used dimensional energy to scare off that woman. It’s more likely your fault.”
There are very few skills from medical school that I utilize anymore, but being able to drown out other people at will – be it quibbling interns or ghosts – is one I’ve clung to with all my might.
We wind through flapping tents lit aglow by ghostly occupants, past a group of children throwing darts at a board, and come to a stop at a large midnight tent, the only one without lights hanging off its drapes.
Without the ghosts acting as lanterns, the tent would blend into the darkness of the forest backdrop.
Its entrance is pinched closed, but when I part the dense drapes, a luminous world, and my favorite place in the fair, greets me inside.
Where you would expect to see the dark slopes of the tent are cherry-wood bookshelves filled with scrolls, binders, and tomes.
It takes another second to realize that the shelves are floating, each one suspended in the air, slowly rotating around the perimeter of the archives.
A few ladders, wound with climbing ivy, extend up the sides of the tent.
The cozy space, lit a warm hearth-red from within, holds two tables placed opposite one another.
A polished gold stand sits in the center of the table farthest from me, supporting a giant open tome.
Next to it are stacks of books waiting to be sorted and shelved.
A dark beige book on the right-most pile flies down to the table’s surface before an invisible hand flips through the pages and sends it flying up to one of the shelves circling the top of the tent.
I once had a classmate whose parents were so wealthy they had a greenhouse library in their garden.
At the fine age of ten, I’d taken one look at it and decided that I wanted that precise thing when I grew up.
My mom, never one to diminish a dream, would scruff my hair and tell me it’s a good thing I was going to be a successful doctor one day.
Little did I know, I wouldn’t make it past the worst year of my surgical residency, but I would gain a magical backyard library that exceeded all childhood hopes and dreams.
“Ah, I’m afraid you lose the bet today, Quill; she did indeed make it here within ten minutes,” says someone.
Keshav appears through the nearest stack of books. He looks like a candy-cane: tall, thin, with a severely arched back. Even though all of him is grey, there’s a texture to his long, peppered beard, which he often twists between his fingers when in deep thought.
The tome on the stand rustles its pages. Keshav walks over to place his palm on it, translating the sound. “Quill would like me to clarify that she was certain Geneva would enlist your help out there. She’s surprised you got away.”
I grimace, falling into the closest chair.
The fatigue from time travel sinks its teeth into my muscles.
“This is Geneva’s dream; she hasn’t had the chance to order the masses around since I fell ill all those years ago.
I think she misses the power of being keeper.
” And right now, with the chaos across the fair and all that rot, I wish I could give her the job back.
Keshav doesn’t miss the bitterness that seeps into my tone. “All these years and you still haven’t forgiven her.”
“I’ve forgiven her,” I protest as something icy rubs against my legs.
I bend over to pet the only ghost I voluntarily make prolonged contact with: the archive’s one-eyed Persian cat, Cillian.
He gazes up at me with a look of adoration before leaping onto the table and curling up in the crook of my elbow. “I haven’t quite forgiven this place.”
There’s a prickle up my arm, the carousel’s familiar protest.
I’m allowed to be angry, I say sternly in my head.
The sensation on my skin skitters, and I imagine it forlorn, but acquiescent.
After four hundred and eighty-seven years of being the timekeeper, I deserve to be a little angry.
Not that anyone but me seems to have remembered my anniversary.
I mark time in mortal years, since the average day at the fair is still roughly twenty-four hours long (yes, I did once count the seconds in a day, and no, I was not okay).
Four hundred and eighty-seven. The number sits heavy in my gut.