The Lass That Is Gone

The rest of that day and most of the next pass in a blur.

Years later, I can look back and remember that after coming home from Culloden, I met a small herd of adorable Highland cows, pastured alongside Mrs. Graham's three prize nanny goats, and that right before tea Mr. Graham showed me the vegetable garden and greenhouse, and let me pick a tomato. The next morning, I can recall that Uncle Lamb explained orange marmalade at breakfast, and then spent much of the forenoon introducing me to the seemingly endless parade of people making deliveries to the manse that day. A boy from the fishmonger's shop, a man from the butcher shop, two young women from the grocer's shop, a man with parts for the groundcars, a girl delivering mail, an older woman delivering clean laundry - I can remember all their names and faces now, but at the time, there were so many of them, and so many new experiences for me, that by sundown of my third day on Cold Island 12, I'm afraid I could remember little of any of it except some bright colors, vague shapes, and cheery, accented voices.

I do know that tea this afternoon was hasty and plain, but plentiful and substantial. Apparently we won't be having supper.

"Weel then, come along and we'll get you bathed and prepared to see the Firedawn Dance, dearie," says Mrs. Graham, as soon as the meal is over, "You'd best go to bed as soon as possible too - getting up two hours before dawn is no joke - if you don't get your sleep in, ye'll be knackered the rest of the day."

She hustles me upstairs and into my bedroom before I've gathered the energy or wit to reply. I go over to my bed, noticing some new things there. A plain white linen gown is laid out, next to some freshly washed underclothes and a floor-length hooded green cloak. A pair of soft leather slippers and a small close-knitted bag of raw, unbleached wool sit nearby on the bedside table.

"Ritual clothes, dearie," says Mrs. Graham, noticing my interest, "You must only put them on right before we leave. First we need to find you a token, and then I'll draw your bath."

"Lamb did mention something about a token," I say, "But I confess I didn't ask anything more specific about it. There were. . . a lot of other questions that needed to be asked first, if you know what I mean."

"That I do dearie. Your token must be something that is either beautiful, or makes you think of something beautiful," she picks up the little drawstring bag for a moment, then puts it back on the table, smoothing it flat, "I have a carved piece of quahog shell my Grandfather said was made in America before the Unity War, Lamb carries a little illustrated pocket edition of Just So Stories with gilded edges, I know several of the girls carry rings, and sometimes necklaces or other jewelry, and most of the young men have either a pocketknife, or a picture of their sweethearts." She smiles indulgently, "But yours doesn't have to be any of those things. It just has to be something you like looking at, or thinking about."

I wander about the room, picking up one thing and another, considering each momentarily before putting it back down. "What exactly are these tokens for, Mrs. Graham?"

"For focusing the aura," she says, without a single trace of sarcasm, "Any type of Fire dance draws up a lot of ley power, of course, but a Firedawn ritual releases stellar, solar and lunar vibrations in addition to that. Bringing a dissipate soul into such a convergence of energies would be most unhealthy, not to mention dangerous to the rest of us."

I blink. I understood most of those words, but I caught almost none of their meaning. I decide not to ask.

"Alright," I say instead, "Can this thing be of any size?"

"You must be able to carry it," she says, "That's the only requirement."

I look around the room again. There are plenty of beautiful things. A carved wooden box full of fragrant dried rose petals. A small pottery bowl glazed in a smooth, matte black, and a deep, rich green. A slender beeswax candle in burgundy and gold stripes. A tiny pillow made of a thick, silvery-grey cloth I have learned is called "velvet". A wafer-thin slice of an amethyst geode bigger than my palm that I only discovered yesterday, and instantly fell in love with.

But none of them seem right. They're pretty things, but all toys. Nothing real. Nothing mine.

If this is about focus, or attachment, or. . . well, meaning, then, something new isn't going to work. In fact, there's only one possible option.

I go over to one of the room's large cupboards, and root around until I find the bag I brought with me. My mother's old steel bottle with chipped enamel is sitting on top of my spare pair of boots. I lift it, and hold it out to show Mrs. Graham.

"Will this do?"

She smiles, and gently takes it from me.

"Admirably," she says. She slips it into the knitted bag, and pulls the drawstring tight over it. It just fits.

"Perfect," she says, smiling, "Now, let's get you bathed."

"Oh, yes," I say, eagerly, "I've been wondering where your steamshowers are."

"Steamshowers?" she asks over her shoulder as she leads me into the closet room, "Why would you bathe with- Oh! You mean sanitizing chambers? We have two downstairs, but we only wash dishes and clothes in them. You could clean yourself in one, I suppose - now that I think of it, there is a stetting for that and all - and you'd certainly get rid of any germs that way! But none of us here bathe like that."

"But then, how. . ."

I break off, for she has reached the large vat on the expanse of white tile that dominates that side of the long room. There are three small buttons on the wall - a pale blue one, a white one, and an orange one. She pushes the orange one, and at once, clear, steaming hot water cascades out from a recessed opening in the side of the vat.

No. . . the tub.

The bath tub.

I've read of such things, of course, but not even in Central Township did we. . .

"Your house has running water?" I gasp, incredulous.

"Oh, yes," she smiles, as though this is nothing, "This house is over three-hundred years old, dearie. All homes were built with water plumbing then."

"But. . ."

"We're only allowed to turn it on two days a week, and the residents are limited to one full tub each on those days, but that's more than enough to keep us all clean, and with sponge baths in between, we make do, dearie, we make do."

I advance to the side of the tub, watching the swirling water and breathing in the soft steam, "You do considerably more than that, I think, Mrs. Graham."

She smiles, but doesn't reply, instead collecting two small bottles, one palm-sized coloured brick, and one small and two large cloths from the shelves and dressing table along the wall, and hands them all to me.

At my wildly confused stare, she takes pity on me, pointing to and naming each thing.

"Hair soap, face soap, body soap, wash cloth, and towels."

"Thank you," I say, averting my eyes with embarrassment, "We don't have things like this on the Skycities, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Graham blinks, and starts back, unbelieving, "Soap?"

"Oh, no," I laugh, "We have soap, it just isn't like this."

"Towels?"

"When you bathe with steam, you don't need towels."

"Oh, aye?" she sounds only mildly curious, "Well, I'll leave you to your bath, dearie."

She pushes the white button, and the water stops. She pats my shoulder as she leaves. I watch her out, and then, for the first time in my life, I submerge my whole body in hot water.

It's like nothing I've ever done, or even imagined before. Not the peace of skysurfing, nor the refreshment of putting on newly clean, warm clothes can compare with it. Even Frank, and all my memories of the whispered words and liquid heat of making love with him, somehow pale in comparison to this present pleasure.

I wait for the cold, yawning emptiness that Frank's memory always conjures in me, but for the first time in the nearly five years since he died, it doesn't happen. I wait again, and shiver out of pure habit, for the icy void in my heart still does not appear.

I rinse away the gritty soapsuds of the face cleanser, a glow in my chest where before there was only loneliness and bereavement.

A bath?

A bath is all it takes to heal my sorrow?

Impossible.

No. No, it must be the past three days. So much has happened, I have learned so much about so many things - is it any wonder I currently have no room for the grief that was previously my only companion? I'm merely distracted at the moment.

I pause in the middle of opening the second bottle of soap. Suddenly the spell of magic and mystery that has covered the last few days falls away, and I see clearly what a fool I've been.

Distracted? Yes, by an old man's fancies and an old woman's conjuring tricks!

And, to be brutally honest, distracted by the notion that I might be some sort of special chosen one who can save the world with time travel!

Time travel indeed!

I feel deeply ashamed of myself. What an idiot I've been! Lamb is mad. Must be. Mad as a hatter on acid, always has been, and I just didn't notice. When have I ever seen a madman, after all? How am I to know what one looks like? Oh, he's harmless enough, but mad. Mad clear through. And Mrs. Graham must enable his delusions because he lets her work her witchcraft and doesn't complain about things. That whole story he span out for me - bosh, from beginning to end, of course. And I swallowed it, like a green child who has never seen a dove appear out of a hat, or a street magician pick the card you chose.

I sigh, and massage the liquid soap into my hair.

I'll watch this ritual tonight - and no doubt Uncle has built it up to some fantastical degree, very likely it is only some Neo-pagan light show - and in a few weeks, I'll leave, home to Skycity 15, no harm done. Besides a bruised pride, of course, but I can deal with that.

Then I can go back to mourning my husband in peace.

I scrub and rinse all over, then step out to dry off. I've never been so drippy after bathing before. I pat myself inexpertly with the towels, longing for a hot-air drying stall. The floor-length mirrors reflect the long horizontal lines of the shelves on the opposite wall, looking from my vantage point like the construction guidelines drawn when plotting out a picture in one-point perspective.

I take a fresh towel from the table, and wrap my hair in it. I've had quite enough of one perspective. Time to get back to the real world.

With a sigh, I go back to the main room. I survey the clothes laid out for tonight and shrug. It can't hurt to go along with it one last time, can it? No need to spoil their fun, even if it is at my expense.

Suddenly, I am desperately sleepy. I push between the covers without even bothering to unwrap my hair.

The dim warmth of the room draws me forth. I rise and hover over the bed, to answer someone who has called my name. I stand near the window, looking out, looking back, looking forward.

I know I am dreaming when Frank comes to me, cradling my face in his slender, artist's hands that were never given the opportunity for anything but hard labour, and his thumbs brush the sides of my mouth, just like he always used to do.

"Come back to me," he whispers, "Go, so you can come back to me."

He dissolves away outward, and I whirl around. I must find him, go to him. My husband, my love, my loss. . . I thrash about, running without going anywhere, struggling against the bonds of time and space.

A hand emerges from the aether and steadies me. Pulls me toward itself. . . himself. A new man is revealed. Taller, broader than Frank, his hand thicker and coarser, infinitely suited to hard labour, and content to make his living doing so, as Frank never was. I catch a glimpse of electric blue eyes before he roughly pulls my mouth to his, husking one word before he kisses me like I've never been kissed.

"Claire!"

In three seconds I belong to him more then I've ever belonged to anyone. A fiery, tumultuous longing blooms in my belly.

Who are you? I want to ask, but I am mute. Where are you?

I pull away from him so I can continue my search.

"Claire!"

I know I am dreaming, but nothing in my life has ever been more real.

"Claire, dearie!"

I open my eyes to a gently smiling, and very un-dreamlike Mrs. Graham.

"It's time to get ready!" She turns on the lamp at the bedside table, "I'll leave you to get dressed."

And then she's gone again.

I sigh. The dream is gone with her, and all that's left is this sham of a time-travel ritual. Too late to turn back, though. I get up, and begin to put on the laid-out clothes.

What an idiot I am! To dream of men, especially Frank, here, and now of all times!

Frank is dead, and there is no one else out there I want to marry.

Although, oddly, I still don't feel my usual chill of loss when I think of Frank, and I do still feel the warm bloom of desire in my stomach from kissing that strange unknown. . .

I shake myself. Get back on track, Beauchamp! Clothes! Phony ritual! Then you can enjoy the rest of your time here with no more mythic gobbledygook!

Yes. And then?

I settle the long cloak around my shoulders, and pick up the knitted bag with my enamel bottle in it.

"And then," I say quietly to myself, "You go home. . . and do whatever it takes to find a job that'll get you out of that awful tent."

I nod. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

Uncle and Mrs. Graham are waiting for me in the kitchen. She looks unexpectedly modern, frumpy, and out of place in the long lines of her cool linen dress and warm woolen robe. Almost as though the everyday Mrs. Graham herself is the costume, and she has not yet made her crucial transformation. And then, equally unexpectedly, Uncle has the air of an ancient sage about him, not because of the clothes, only accentuated by them. Something in the tilt of his head, the set of his mouth, how he moves while escorting me to the door, suggests a full-fledged Merlin, hawk-eyed and triumphant at the height of his power, and in full control of an entire kingdom of lesser men.

Outside the manse, there is a small crowd of people waiting for us. In the flickering light of two flaming torches, I see faces - some old, some young, most somewhere in the middle. The cloaks and low light obscure gender, but many varied heights are represented, some taller than even Uncle, and one or two so small I wonder if there are children in this procession. Everyone is silent, somber, dressed alike in white and dark green. Someone hands Uncle one of the torches, and he slowly waves it, pronouncing while he does so a few long, strange words, in a language I don't know.

I don't ask for a translation. Neither does anyone else.

Then we all begin walking, toward the hill of Craigh na Dun. I'm unsure of the way, exactly, but I'm not worried. Everyone else knows.

For a few minutes there is no sound but the rustle of our feet in the grass, but then, starting in time with our footsteps, and so softly I almost can't hear it, the slow rolling beat of drums rise up around us.

It rolls up, higher, louder, but not faster, setting our pace, easy and free, but steady, primal.

And then the flutes begin.

The high, sweet piping is breathy and piercingly sad, drawing down the gleam of the stars upon a still, moonless night.

This music calls out my soul with reproach - this is no mere empty show, not some shabby conjuror's trick. It is the timeless sound of long ago, a paean that cries aloud to the clumsy, crude world outside, that things of infinity and true importance still exist.

It would be the song of lovers, save for its haunting call to action.

The pace set is slow, but constant, and it brings us within sight of the hill in good time. We foregather under a rowan tree - shown in the ruddy, flickering torchlight as nothing more than a lace canopy of golden strands above us. Uncle gestures wordlessly to the group about him, and they all know what they must do. Without stopping their playing, the musicians trail out, and around, until they form an enormous circle surrounding the hill at many paces. Those that have remained here under the rowan have produced small brass bowls suspended along their rims by long chains. One by one, they each present their dish to my uncle, who puts a handful of something in it, and touches it with the torch. Small steady flames leap up from each dish as he does so. Each woman holds her dish by the chains, so that the flames swing freely, some distance from their bodies, and close to the ground.

He gestures them forward, and two by two they begin to approach the stone-crowned hill.

I didn't notice when the first torch had been extinguished, but now Uncle smothers the second in a small pile of sand, plunging the entire glade into an indigo, starlit gloom.

His hand takes my arm as we follow them for a little ways, and then he holds me back. I can hear the nearest drummer, away off to my left, and the nearest whistling piper, a little further to my right.

While they are still en route to the floor of Craigh na Dun, the moon rises, and lit by that pale silver sickle in the Southern sky, we see seven fire dancers, and one lone shadow without a flame, slowly climb to their places.

A single high, piping flute rises out of the dark, both shrill and sweet, incisive and demanding.

Then all at once, patterns of fire erupt all around and in between the stones. Silhouettes of the women dancing can hardly be seen, so fast and so intricate is the dance. The pace of the flutes quickens, followed by the beat and roll of the drums. The flames flash, the white-robed dancers move as sure as ocean waves, and the patterns of fire leave lines of blue in my eyes.

Only once do the flames blaze bright enough to illuminate a face. A single glimpse only, but that is all I need.

It is a face I know, and yet. . . it is also the face of a stranger.

The white lines of her dress fit her now - she has thrown off this world, and become Chaos, Mother of Time.

For this is the true Mrs. Graham revealed - an ancient, ageless wise woman, clear-eyed and kindly in her intent, fell-handed and remorseless in her execution. Never, save at the last exigency of need, would she proclaim a malediction, but to once fall under that curse would be annihilation, no question.

Slowly, inexorably, I fall back into enchantment. Here are the breath and bones of a race and time so ancient they can be measured in the lives of stars. Here is the full power of dominion over creation made manifest by God Himself.

Time?

What is time?

No more than depth, no more than height, no more than width.

A portal in time is no more than a door, if you know how to open it.

The obscuring layers of science and history fall away, and the lines of power and light gleam though the dark, like the blood and soul of the universe. The moon and stars are drawn down, so close to this world they lend their voices to the keening flutes, so near to hand they might be touched, if only you knew how.

The tiny whirling flames draw into a new pattern, and the small flameless shadow rises to the center of the circle, even as the leader of the Dance comes forward. In a feat of timing only a little less than a solar eclipse, this lead dancer who used to be Mrs. Graham lifts her fire dish in triumphant salute, just as the sun breaches the rim of hills, and ignites the circle of stones with burning, celestial gems.

A breathtaking current of power strikes the music dumb.

In the vibrating hush, the nameless chosen one comes forward, walking down the infinite shadow the new sun casts from the tall central stone. She raises her palms, submissive, not defiant, and reverently presses her hands against the slim wall of rock.

And nothing happens.

For a few seconds, no one quite understands or believes it.

Then, as one, we all inhale, in shock and disappointment.

The spell of power dissolves, subsumed into the bones of the Earth and retreated across the vastness of space again, waiting to be called forth once more when the time is right.

A gently murmuring crowd of dancers and musicians gather over by the magnificent rowan tree, now revealed to be alive with a rampant crop of red berries. A few of the golden moths I saw my first night here flutter about in shock at the new sunlight, then retreat again to roost until sundown.

I feel I have no place among the discussion here, with my uncle quizzing each individual about things I cannot understand, and everyone else milling about, wondering wildly what went wrong.

I look about me, and find I do want a closer look at the ring of stones, at least.

The air is cool, and sweet with the scents of morning. The dew is still all over the grass and stones at the crown of the hill. Perhaps the day will be clear enough to warm the damp away, but it is so late in the year that I doubt it. I turn my back to the newly risen sun, and look away off into the hills to the West. The blue mists of early morning still lie between the branches of the trees, like a wispy nightgown. The pale clumps of stone outcrops echo the few knots of puffy clouds in the sky.

So it all was just a light show after all. Just a display put on for a visitor.

No, not just that. There had been power in that dance and in that music. The girl who had raised her hands to the stone had clearly been expecting something to happen that didn't happen.

The consternation I can hear in my uncle's voice, even from over here, is very real.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny silver flash in the pale blue Western sky.

I smile. There are few celestial bodies I know much about, but this is Venus, the Star of Morning. Frank's favourite planet. He always said that if we could only muster the will to attempt it, the Human race might go there, and survive, thanks to our Skycity technology, which might easily be modified into Venusian cloud-cities.

It was nothing but a dream, but I let him dream it.

That tiny twinkling silver flame will never know the presence of Humanity. Thank God.

As I turn to go back down the hill, I step into the long shadow of the central stone, to save my eyes the sun's too-bright glare. A wind has picked up, and I shiver a little in the sudden chill. It pushes away the low murmuring sound of the discussions still going on near the rowan tree. Save for the smooth brushing sweep of the wind, there is silence in the stone circle.

What, I wonder, would it actually be like? To rend lose from the bonds of time and drop through dimensions unknown to man?

What if it were possible?

What if it was not just a dream?

I pace slowly closer to that imposing wall of stone.

What if. . . time travel was real?

A low, keening call seems to come from the rock itself, ringing as the wind whistles past.

In a trance, I raise my hands, moving ever closer to the rough rectangle, haloed about with the golden glory of the morning sun.

It couldn't possibly be wrong to try, could it?

The breeze roars in my ears, the ringing of the stones pounding in my head, louder and more powerful than the drums.

The last thing I hear is Lamb, shouting over the wind, "Claire, no!"

But he is too late. Fate has its hold on me.

My fingers touch the grey, unyielding surface.

A great bell clangs, and black aether itself opens up before my eyes, and swallows me whole.