City At The End Of Time (14 page)

By four o’clock the crowds fled the concrete canyons, on their way home, so Jack packed up the cage and impedimenta, hung them on the front and back fenders of his bike, and began the long haul out of downtown, up Denny to Capitol Hill.

He was reluctantly on his way to the Broadway Free Clinic. First, he made a stop at Ellen’s house. Her small gray bungalow was perched behind a slender garden topping a three-foot-high retaining wall, up two flights of concrete steps. She was still on a day trip out of town, so he found the key she had left hidden for him and stashed his rats high in the rafters of the old single-car garage, away from prowling cats.

Jack could be very handsome. He had made himself only slightly handsome around Ellen. Her longing was a puzzle—not motherly, not lustful—not entirely. He liked the attention. It made him feel rooted. She might remember him for weeks at a time—unlike everyone else. Still, he moved some small things around in the living room.

She had recommended the free clinic. “Even buskers need checkups,” she had said. He thought about last week’s dinner. Ellen had set the table with fine silver, crystal, and antique china, and served up salmon in berry glaze with rice and buttered fennel root. She had regarded him with a peculiar mix of longing and caution when she thought he wasn’t looking, and he’d tried to reward her approval—without being too open.

She was not a hunter—not a spy. But vigilance was essential—especially when he felt safe. As she’d asked, he brought in her mail, sorted and dumped the recyclables, then checked the moisture in her aspidistras and an indoor lemon tree by the broad front bay window. Jack lingered for a few minutes, staring through the window across the street, and noted the distance between streetlights; wondered what the view would be like at midnight, in almost complete darkness, or better yet early in the morning, with all the lights off and just a glimmer of dawn. He could almost see it—the picture swam before him, this time overlaid by something else that could not and certainly should not have been there. The houses across the street seemed made of glass, and through them he spied a plain or desert, black as obsidian, studded with huge, indistinct objects—alive in their way, but full of hatred and envy, unforgiving.

With a groan, he closed his eyes, then shook his head until the afternoon light returned—and quickly drew the drapes.

The clinic waiting room was full. The doctors were dealing with seven moms and their sick children. Jack enjoyed children, but when they were not well or otherwise in real need, they made him feel uneasy, inadequate. With averted eyes, he listened to the coughing and snuffling, the crying, the fighting over toys. He tapped his fingers on the wooden arm of the chair, beating out the same bouncing song he hummed under his breath when he juggled—more a series of tuneful grunts.

An elderly man stood as his name was announced and deposited a
Seattle Weekly
on the center table. Jack picked up the tabloid, flipped past the media reviews—he did not much like movies or television—and lingered over the articles on clubs and live music. Always looking for a few good tunes. He was halfway through a formal analysis of a new fusion-Ska-grace band when the words on the page shifted left. His head whirred. Something seemed to hover before his eyes: a cloud of large winged insects, illuminated by a brilliant beam of light. Then they blurred and slipped off, smudging into the paintings on the clinic walls—past the chairs, the little children’s corner filled with toys. A small fish tank bubbled away near the reception desk.

The bubbles froze.

The clinic fell silent.

He could see, but what he saw was skewed—rotating this way, then that, around a center point that expanded and changed color from red to blue to shades of brown and pink.

Then he looked directly into another pair of wide eyes, staring with an expression he could not read. He could not make sense of the face—too many contours—but there was nothing frightening about it. Somehow, he knew that this person was gentle, concerned, interested in him. More than interested.

Behind the face, a receding tunnel opened onto artificial brightness. He became aware that his own face was foolishly slack, lids heavy.

He was dreaming again.

The face: flatter than he was used to, pug nose tipped with pink hairs, thick reddish fuzz reaching to her cheeks, tiny ears.

As one set of biological opinions took over from the other, he found the face attractive, then more than that—beautiful. A hint of concern and sadness became attached to his desire. His own hair felt different—bunched back, spiky and short, more furry bristle than hair. He tried to take control of his lips and tongue, but it was not easy. Whatever sounds he made were bound to be garbled. He fumbled at his ears with questing fingers. They felt like hot button mushrooms. The female with the flat pink nose wiped his forehead with a slender hand. She spoke again.
Gabble,
gabble, gabble
, but pretty. She might be reciting poetry—or singing. Colors in his vision ran riot. He could not tell whether she was blue or brown or pink. Then, like a picture coming into focus, he acquired one frame of language and dropped another, colors became natural, and speaking was easier. Command of his body—at least of face and mouth—became more confident.

“You’re back,” she said. “How wonderful. Do you remember me?”

“I don’t…think so,” he said, well aware neither of them was speaking English, nor any language he had ever heard before.

“What do you remember?”

He looked at the curved ceiling. Large winged insects—bigger than his hand, with shining black cylindrical bodies—hung upside down, crawling. Each had a letter or symbol on its back. They moved into parallel, seemed to want to form rows—and thus make words. He could not read the words. Still, everything around him was real—absolute, with a solid, repeatable feel.

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Not on this side.”

“How long…?”

“You’ve been twitching for a while. Less than a…” She used a word he could not capture and hold, so it slipped away.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but there is a protocol. We made it up. Your body-mate is a little…” Another word, embarrassing in whatever context it might have had. “He left you a message, which I have improved upon. To inform you of where you are, and what not to do.”

He could not turn his head, so she raised a square black cloth covered with glittering red and yellow writing—a
shake cloth
.

“I can’t read,” he said.

“I’ll read it for you.”

“My name is…” But he had already forgotten who he had been and where he had been…before he was here. He tried to stand up, but his body tingled and he fell back.

She touched her ear and then her nose in sympathy. That was like smiling, maybe. “Never mind. Let’s try this first. You appear to come from a time very far from this one. If you are real, and not a trick of the Tall Ones, then you should be taught some facts.”

She turned the square and read the glittering words.

“‘Welcome, polar opposite! I have been going astray of late, and assume you are the culprit. There is little to tell you, other than what you plainly see; I am of the ancient breed, poor enough and adventurous. If you are from the immediate future, please do not leave evidence of our fate; I prefer not to know. If you are from the past, then all I can say is that clocks no longer keep the time. Still, life is happy enough—if you stay humble. Otherwise, the Tiers can be cruel. If you are from the immediate past, and want to walk around, take care of my body—and do not dally with any attractive glows you might meet.’” At this, the female’s face became wreathed in dimples and curves. “‘You may amuse yourself by fighting in the skirmishes.’”

“No, you won’t,” the female added, glancing at him. Then she continued, “‘There have been changes since you were here last. We’re going on a march. And that’s all I know. But I hope to know more.’”

The female looked up, hopeful. “That’s all he managed to set down,” she concluded. “Does it make sense? We’d like to know all you can tell us, of course—anything you want to tell us.”

She was obviously concerned about his reaction to the message, which was already fading in his thoughts.
I’ve seen her before. But was that “before” before—or after—this?

No sequence.

Remember, Mnemosyne!

“I’m confused,” he managed to say, his mouth numb again. “If I stay here…for a while—I’ll need to learn. Could you teach me?”

“That would be my delight,” the female answered. “Though you rarely stay long. Are you from the future, or from the past?”

“I don’t know. Is this…the Kalpa?”

“It
is
!” she cried out in delight. “The Tiers are inside the Kalpa, at the bottom, I think. We are very humble. You
do
remember!”

“Only some things…I remember
you
.”

“We’ve never met, until now,” she said, with pretty concern. “But Jebrassy has told me about you…a little.”

“What’s your name? Wait…it’s Tiadba, isn’t it?”

She was even more delighted, but puzzled. “Did he tell you that? What’s your name?”

“I don’t know. This is where I go when I stray, isn’t it?”

“Where you go, and whom you visit. But where do you come from?”

“I don’t remember. It’s all mixed up.”

Tiadba showed concern. He could see that, but the way her face made expressions, the way her cheek and jaw and lip muscles moved, was strange…Strange and lovely. She had such tiny ears and her eyes were large, almost like the eyes of a…

Another word lost.

He squinted at the ceiling. He could almost read what the letterbugs were spelling out. Insect pets that spelled out words. “What are they doing?” He tried to lean forward, get up, stand again. Too fast, too much. His eyes lost focus and his vision skewed. Shutters seemed to clack and close around him. He did not want to leave, not when he was on the brink of learning more, with this beautiful female to help him. He had been so lonely for so long!

He tried to reach out, but his hands wouldn’t move.

“I’m falling. Hold onto me,” he said, angry that his lips were so thick and clumsy.

“Try to stay, try harder!” Tiadba grabbed his hands, his arms. She was surprisingly strong. But all sense was draining from his head and body and limbs. The last thing he saw was her face, her eyes—brown—her flat, expressive nose—

Jack’s awareness squashed down to a fuzzy point, something whirred and snapped—the point expanded—vertigo turned into blurs of light—and he was back.

He blinked at the fish swimming in their tank, listened woozily to the hum of the waiting room’s heating system. Tried to hang onto what he had experienced—especially the face, the female, and the letterbugs, a weird idea—fun, actually—but by the time he realized where he was, everything slipped away except a sense of panic. Someone was in desperate trouble.

Here, there—now, then
?

That urgency faded as well.

Jack looked around. The families had been reduced to a lone mother in a sari and her sleeping infant. An elderly couple had taken seats nearby. Embarrassed, he looked at his watch. He had blanked for thirty minutes. Somehow, he had kept turning the pages.

He folded the newspaper and put it in his satchel.

The attending nurse stood in the door to the waiting room. “Jack Rohmer? Dr. Sangloss will see you now.”

CHAPTER 110

Nataraja was disturbing Daniel’s deepest pools. How did he remember that name? Bidewell had never brought it up. Glaucous had never mentioned it. Neither had Jack or Ginny. But he could see it all with a strange clarity, as if he had witnessed its end with better eyes, connected to a deeper and more subtle brain.

For Daniel, the disposition of the False City was strangely familiar, overlaid by the pattern, if it could be called that, of its awful defeat.

He clambered up an immense curtain-wall, leaning at about thirty degrees to the rest of the rubble: thousands of acres shot through with cracks, rippling tears, wide chasms, and faults. Spheres and stretched, twisted ovoids, bent cylinders and curving sweeps, still clung to the sheet, interconnected by thousands of silver walkways or transportation rails, some still supporting what might have been mobile constructs. When it was alive, when it all worked together, Nataraja must have been a marvel…