Slippin' into darkness,
When I heard my mother say
I was slippin' into darkness
When I heard my mother say
Hey, what'd she say, what'd she say
You've been slippin' into darkness
Pretty soon you gonna pay.
War
Donald Callahan didn't spot the girl lying in the field until he had nearly tripped over her, for some wonder. He was a perceptive man, but she very nearly flew beneath the radar nevertheless.
He had taken to strolling through the vast untilled meadows at the edge of the Calla recently, to ease his mind. Things had been a trifle odd the past few . . . . well, what was it? Weeks? Months? Sometimes it was difficult to say. Time had become slippery. These walks, though . . . they eased his mind, allowing him time to reflect upon the time he'd spent here in this strange new place in Mid-World, as well as the time he'd spent elsewhere. It wasn't that the Calla-folken annoyed him, certainly not - quite the opposite, Pere Callahan liked them quite a lot and had enjoyed them thoroughly since his arrival - but they were sometimes persistent, and inexorable in their questions and ailments and concerns. It was exhausting, at times, and though he bore it patiently - the diocese had taught him this useful little skill, for years beyond count in his life before - he still had his moments when he wished bitterly for a fifth or two to drown them out. But here it was peaceful, quiet, the wind brisk and cool and the birds singing merrily in the blue sky. Just a little walk, from his hacienda to the end of the meadow, a half-wheel or perhaps less.
Pere Callahan came upon the girl suddenly, stumbling a little as he struggled not to step onto her. She was strewn in the tall grass, flattening it with her weight, arms lying palms-up at her sides. Callahan stopped where he was, arms pinwheeling a little, staring down at her in utter bewilderment. She was young - not yet thirty, he surmised - and possessed of long dark hair, high cheekbones and thick dark brows that descended over her eyes. She was clad in a pair of jeans and a filthy black button-up, and she was startlingly, almost ethereally beautiful - beautiful in a way that Callahan associated with Scheherezade, or perhaps Mata Hari - but she was also quite insensible, her mouth hanging slightly open and her lips parched and chapped over. He knelt before her, touching her shoulder gently.
"Miss, are you alright?"
She did not respond. Callahan placed a pair of fingers on her throat and was heartened to feel a strong pulse there, and her lean chest was rising and falling gently with her breath. Not dead, then. He shook her a little.
"Miss, come all the way around, do it please ya. I'm gonna slap you if you don't, and I'm sorry for it."
She didn't respond. Callahan lifted a hand, a trifle reluctantly, and smacked her cheek, not gently. The girl's eyes flew open, blinking against the light accosting her eyes, frowning and jerking an arm up over her face against the sudden assault of sunlight. Callahan patted her arm gently, meeting her frightened gaze. Her eyes were hazel, shot through with gold, like a riverbed.
"Heeey, now. There we are. Rest easy there, my friend. Come upon you senseless on the ground out here thinking you were done for."
"What are you doing?" The girl was blinking up at him, utterly bewildered, her mouth turned down. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"All questions I'm happy to answer for you, my friend," said Callahan gently. "But first I suspect we ought to get indoors. Are you able to walk? You seem a little poorly."
The girl sat up a little, and even Callahan noted the tremble in her muscles when she did so, as if she'd run a great distance. She lay back again, sighing.
"I don't know. Just - just give me a second to -"
"Nay, nay, let me." Callahan had bent and scooped her into his arms in the space of a second, with surprising strength for a man his size. The girl's expression said that she was none too pleased to be lifted and carried by a stranger, but she bore it with patience enough. "Rest easy, my friend. We'll be someplace a trifle less exposed in just a few minutes, my house isn't far."
The girl was out again before she could form a response to this, her head lolling against Callahan's arm and her muscles going lax against him, making her weight somehow heavier. He staggered a little, clutching her against him.
"Okay, then. Go on down, we'll get you up in a bit here, do it please ya."
Callahan had her at his house in another ten minutes or so, and once he'd managed to finagle the door open, sweating a little now, and breathing a little quickly - he was not as young as he once was, and slightly built or not, carrying another a half-wheel was no small feat - he lay the girl on his bed, pulling the blanket over her gently and tucking it in at her sides. This done, he drew a chair from his makeshift little kitchen table, the legs creaking over the roughly hewn wooden floor, and planted himself next to her bed, crossing his legs.
CALLAHAN kept watch over the girl here, occasionally bowing his head and praying, his lips moving silently, until she finally came to some hour later. At last she opened her eyes, readjusting her head on the pillow so that she was looking up at him, her brows furrowed.
"Who're you?" she murmured, low.
"My name is Donald Callahan," he said, and tapped his throat three times. "How from head to feet, do ya, I beg?"
The girl gaped at him. "Beg pardon?"
"Er -" Callahan hesitated. "Well, I take it you aren't from these parts, then, if you haven't heard such a greeting."
"No, I sure as fuck haven't." The woman sat up in bed, the scant blanket falling around her lean waist. "Who are you, I asked?"
"Donald Callahan that was," said Callahan, inclining his head a little. "Once upon a time, I was Father Callahan, but they call me Pere hereabouts. What's your name, my friend?"
She hesitated. "Rane Roth."
She stuck out a slightly unsteady hand, and Callahan, surprised, took it in both his own and shook it, looking pleased.
"Are you clergy?"
Clergy. Now that was a word that Callahan had not heard in a very long time, and certainly not in Mid-World.
"I was once, in a fashion. You aren't from the Calla, are you?"
"I'm from a lot of places, but that isn't one of them," Rane replied, a little wry.
"Do you come from New York side?"
Rane blinked. "How do you mean?"
Callahan gestured vaguely. "Well, do you know New York? That's evidence enough, in my experience."
"Of course I know of New York." Rane was a trifle surprised. "I mean, who doesn't?"
"What year do you come from?"
Rane blinked, suddenly a little disoriented. "Oh, man. What year. Hang on."
She lowered her head to her hands, clutching her forehead for a moment, her long hair rippling around her face. The year. The year. What was the year?
"There are two," she said at last, "and I'm going to sound crazy -"
"I promise that you won't," Callahan assured her, sounding amused. Rane scoffed.
"1996. Then, recently, 1902."
"Huh." Callahan nodded, biting his lip. "I see."
"Is that significant?" Rane asked, a trifle sardonically. "I mean, I have no idea where I am."
Callahan was nodding, watching her. "I believe you may ought to meet my new friends, Missus Roth. That's what I think. Mayhap they have more wisdom to scatter on this than I."