I hopped around on the unvarnished wooden floor of the office, dancing barefoot in the circle of light, trying not to fall out of the area defined by the glyph. The question was the usual one I ask myself when I'm about to go on a Jump. The exclamation was because I'd got a splinter in my foot. Smegging splinters...I'd have to ask Merle to try and sand the floor down again, and listen to him whinge on about temporospatial flux again, yadda yadda.
My name is Choraola - Chori for short - and I'm a chrononaut.
Splinter extracted, I smoothed down The Garment. Imagine, if you will, a giant translucent shower cap, big enough to put me in, okay, not so giant, I'm 4'10" – the elastic part goes under my armpits, there's more for the waist – and falling to ankle length. Okay, don't imagine it, if you don't want to. I don't blame you. It's the only thing we can wear on a Jump. The Garment enables chrononauts to navigate the time/space corridors safely, and allows us to project the image we choose to be seen in. Good thing, too. Besides being rustly, this thing leaves nothing at all to the imagination. I may be a time-dancer, but I'm not a natural stripper.
The really good thing about The Garment is pockets. Two of them. Don't leave your home time without one. I checked – typescreen around my neck, ditto access key, a sort of round gizmo that lets you dial in and out, mobile in my left pocket (I'm a lefty, or at least I am now, never back-jump through a mirror, take it from me), and packet of Smarties in my right (call me an addict, but we live on sugar). I sighed. Ready to go. I glanced once more at the plain desk –lamp is green, meaning go (doh), and date-chip says 11.13.4655, need to remember that, make sure I return to home base. Don't want to miss the office party.
I glanced at my personal chronometer and pulled the mobile out of my pocket. I had three minutes to get the petitioner on the line, hook up, and jump over there. The pet wasn't much to go on - they seldom are, I mean "Help help help' never is, is it? I sighed again, and punched in the number.
Smeg. Ten rings. Could you be there, please? Then, surprise, a male voice...my pet said the petitioner was female. Smeg. I jigged around a bit.
The voice wasn't making much sense – just grunting noises, and 'Who are youze?', that sort of thing. No surprise there. The voice on the mobile didn't really represent the RL (er, Real Life, we chronos use a lotta slang) voice of the person. It represented their evolutionary state.
This guy was a troglodyte.
I kept glancing at my chronometer, hurry up, hurry up, 1 minute left, answer the phone, honey, because I'm cutting it fine...I hate to hang up on a petitioner, they usually lose their place in the queue and time out before we can get them again, but under no circumstances can I violate the three-minute rule. Never. No telling what might happen if you go out there out of synch. Thirty seconds and counting...then...
'Hullo?' A woman's voice, breathy, modulated, posh accent, sorta Coral Browne-ish (cinema buff, here). I had my party. I didn't just jump, I leapt.
And oh smegsmegsmeg and doublesmeg. I'd cut it too fine. I was in the soup.
I looked around. Nothing better to do, as my tootsies appeared to be rooted to the...floor? More like an ice rink, only less cold. The walls were, well...weird. Canted in too many directions at once. There was no furniture, but ugly little things I couldn't quite see head-on kept drifting past my peripheral vision.
My first thought was to call for backup. Bad idea. What if one of those horrible Government thingies Merle was always warning us about had built itself a nice little chronotrap? I'd be the Judas sprite in this, for sure. Nope. Solve it yourself, Chori girl. Use your noodle.
I studied the ugly little things...glyphs? Really bad Government?...out of the corner of my eye, and then I started Barney Googling for all I was worth on my little typescreen. Come on, come on, symbols...funny thing looks like a crooked cross...aha, got it.
Gulp. Not letting these people in here, no sirree bob, not letting them in here...just because I jumped at the last second, how do I get out of here, oh Mother Ceres how do I...? Barney Googled some more, thought about what I knew about that time...I smiled.
I concentrated first on straightening out the walls. When I'd got them plumb, I painted the walls pink, with panelling beneath. Then I put in a fireplace - no fire – with a huge mirror over the marble mantel. Oh, yeah, clock and a couple of candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Then I waited.
When the little choo-choo came steaming out of the fireplace, I was ready. Muttering the magic words 'Ceci n'est pas une pipe', I broke the inertia and sprang onto the back of the train. Ride 'em, cowboy, or however that comes out in French. In a few seconds my time, I was out of the trap and into...
...a child's bedroom. A snub-nosed girl, about 8, pigtails, jammies with feet, red hair and freckles, crying, while her big brother, a blond lummox of 10 or 11, held her storybook over his head.
'Give it back, Reg! I'm telling!'
Shake of lummoxy head. 'Nah. I think I'll just go feed it to Mrs Witherspoon's goat. You don't need this old...'
It was the leer on his ugly mug that got me to do it. I loathe snotty little boys, and he was the living end, even had chocolate on the corner of his mouth, and I'll bet he didn't share. So I held up my chronokey and muttered, 'Oh, that God the gift would gie us, to see oursel's as others see us.' That did it.
The book in his hands turned into a mirror – a magic mirror – at least, to him. To his sister, it still looked like a book. Her mouth made an O of astonishment as her brother suddenly dropped the book on the floor – I could see its title now, 'Peter Pan', what else – and backed away, rubbing at his hands and arms as if they had become foreign objects, his face contorted in (to me, at least) comic fear. The kid backed out of the room, almost stumbled over the threshold, and righted himself just in time to tear down the hallway like a bat out of Holo-Hades.
I laughed, and 'materialised', that is, projected myself into the room, about a foot high, green outfit, de rigeur feather in cap, yadda yadda. The laugh came out musical. It was intended to.
The O of the little girl's mouth became even rounder. 'Oh, my goo'ness. A real, honest-to-goo'ness fairy!' I laughed again. Costs nothing. Gives the punters a treat.
'What's your name?'
'M'lissa. What's yours? And what happened to Reg?' I laughed again, warming to the role. Hadn't done a fairy in ages.
'That's a nice name, none of your business, nosy, and Reg just got a go-od look at himself. He didn't like what he saw. Now, I can't stay long, what can I do for you?' I hated to be so brusque, but after that way station stop I was anxious to move on.
Melissa thought. You could see her doing this. It takes some kids that way, thinking - big surprise, involves that wrinkle right above the nose...she looked cute that way, though. I waited.
'Well, I really was just lonesome, and I thought it would be fun to have a playmate...' I could see the wheels turning...'But now you're here, I'm going to put you in my dollhouse and keep you for always.' And she reached for a big jar, probably the one she kept frogs in. I bolted, straight for the ceiling.
Oh, smeg, I thought, a collector, no less. What next today? That puzzled me, though, as I dodged and wove around the room, and Melissa with her specimen jar clambered all over the furniture. Usually we declass this kind of petition, why in the world had it popped up as a number one, meaning 'needs direction in life'? This little minx had direction, more than enough, in fact she seemed to be coming from all directions at once...I did the fluttery number, and was about to say goodbye, when...
...it hit me. The voice. That was the voice of a mature woman. It wasn't Melissa's childhood self that needed help, it was...I frantically typed. I busily dodged. I wove, I dialled, I flew...
The nursery was familiar somehow, twenty-five years into the future. A big casement window, moonlight shining in, three beds, the mother, hair a dark auburn now, the nose just perfect in that delicate face, singing softly, how did I know she would be singing?
'Tender Shepherd, Tender Shepherd, let me help you count your sheep...'I waited until the last 'safe and happily, fall asleep' had echoed away before activating my appearance. This time I, too, was a grown woman, hair up (I went chestnut), long green silk gown, satin slippers. Tried to make my voice musical, but got about to Audrey Hepburn level rather than Coral. Never mind.
'Melissa.' She turned, gracefully, and when she saw me, her hands flew to her face in an equally graceful gesture of alarm.
'Oh! Have you come to take them, then?' I shook my head, noting that where the moonlight fell on her face, she looked drawn, older than her years. But I looked around at this room...and I knew what she'd been trying to make for these children, what kind of haven this room was supposed to be. I shook my head again.
'No. I came in answer to your call. Do you remember the fairy?' I smiled, and something in that fake cybersmile of mine triggered her memory, and she gasped a little gasp of laughter.
'Oh, yes, I do! You were the fairy, weren't you? Oh, and I was such a naughty little girl, I tried to put you in a jar...' Her eyelashes fluttered, she had nice ones. 'I am so sorry. I suppose I'm too old to go to fairyland with you now? Are you sure you won't take the children?' Her voice faltered. 'I'm afraid...I have so little to give them.' Her clothes, and the furnishings in the room, were expensive, but I think I knew what she meant. I smiled and shook my head again.
'You're wrong. Look around.' I indicated the room, typing furiously to make myself do elegant things. I made a sweeping gesture. 'You've given them the most important thing a mother can give her children - you've given them your dreams.'
I remembered my lines now, and my indicator light was blinking, so I knew I had to get them out quickly. 'Always remember, Melissa, to follow your heart. And the light of fairyland will bless your little ones.' Three, two, one, fade...
...and back home. Whew. I hate those fairy numbers, wish on a star, yadda yadda. I was relieved to see that the datechip still said 11.13.4655, the light on the desk was still green, and Rob, a co-worker and good buddy, was sitting behind it smiling at me.
I just hoped he hadn't seen the tear I'd brushed away as I ran behind the screen - damask, not computer - to change, as Rob merrily chatted away, filling me in on the latest water cooler gossip about Merle and some ninny from the secretarial pool. I was half in love with Melissa, though I'd never see her again. I wish I'd asked about Reg...as I dressed, I grinned. Bet he cheated at cards.
I pulled on my after-work glad rags - for me, pink chiton and sandals - did something fast with my hair, just glad to get out of that plastic bag, and ran hand in hand with Rob down the steps from the shack, down the path, under the willow tree, round the standing stones, and down to the fire in the grove.
We ate, we drank, we danced all night, the way we usually do, and overhead, the stars danced with us - as they usually do.
Another day, another dance, we say.
What do you say?
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