The Fall
For a moment I think I have been struck by lightning.
And then I know it's worse. I have entered a world of lightning.
The air is sharp and acid on my tongue, the sky a void of black, but the rest of existence is a crackling mass of blue-white gouts of flame, spiking jaggedly all around, for as far as I can see.
I don't know if I'm falling or floating, but there is no ground, only lines that burn, great rivers of electric power, clapping, crashing, exploding.
I'm definitely falling.
A blade of white strikes straight though my heart, and I am vaporized, rent apart, made into tiny particles projected across the boundless nothing of space, just as surely as the endlessly boiling skin of a star.
I am too small to contain the scream that tears from my throat.
I fall as dew, as a meteor, as dusk, as colliding planets.
I fall between now and forever, for as long as dream, and as brief as eternity.
I fall. . .
I fall. . .
I fall. . .
My soul echoes to itself, and I plummet yet again.
I open my eyes into the blinding glare of sunlight, and collapse onto my hands and knees. There is grass. There is soil. There is light.
That is all I know for quite some time.
Then, I begin to know that I am breathing, that I am wearing clothes, that the sun is warm and the ground is cold. My vision slowly clears, and I can see that I am in a glade. A wide ring of stones atop a small hill, in the midst of an expanse of grassy fields, and trees, and open sky. Gingerly, I stand, only gradually trusting my feet to carry my weight. For an instant I move too fast, and stumble back a step. I would have fallen, but a wall of rock supports me.
Wildly, I look up at the roughly rectangular shape of it.
It is only then that I know.
I am on the other side of the central pillar of Craigh na Dun, with nothing but the clothes I wear, and no idea when in all of history I am. I have Traveled.
Traveled though time.
I cry out with the impossibility of it. With the hard, cold reality of it.
I wrench myself upright, and spin around, placing my hands on the stone.
Nothing happens.
I run around to the other side, and try again.
Nothing happens again.
Stranded!
And worse, stranded by my own thoughtlessly enthralled curiosity.
Stupid!
A cold wind, heavy with the scent of leaf-mould, sweeps through the ring of stones. It smells like the wind did around the manse yesterday. I have only been on Cold Island 12 three days, but I have at least learned that this is a seasonal odour. I consider. It is still morning, it is still late fall, it is still planet Earth. Inverness - or at least where Inverness should be - is within walking distance. Whether I am in the future or the past, no matter how distant from my own time, I can work to fit in, and find a way to deal with whatever comes.
After all, I'm not going to roll into town and try to steal a boat, am I?
I've heard this story - I can figure out what to do.
Survival is possible. Even going back is possible. Common, to hear Lamb tell it.
To have ever doubted him seems foolish now.
But either way, survival comes first.
I tread carefully down the hill - more carefully than I went up, alas! - and look about me to see how much is different, what is still the same, and what can be learned from those things.
There is no fruiting rowan tree anywhere in sight, nor is the sickle moon visible. There are several long, thin lines of cloud in the sky, however. I only know of two things that make such skytrails, meaning that either the mid-atmosphere satellite grid the Skycity Council keeps idly promising to build finally did get built, or, jet-powered flight is common here.
So I know I am in a time where technology has at least advanced to airplanes. That means I can count on the existence of antibiotics and toilet tissue, thank heaven. I don't think I could live in a past - if this is the past - where plants can be listed according to how comfortable they are to wipe with.
"Thimbleberry, mullein, corn husk and aster," I say in a faint sing-song, "They're the best when your a-"
I stop, laughing a little at myself. This is not the time to be remembering Professor Shannon, nor her tendency to turn the day's botany lesson into a dirty poem.
The grass here seems just as overgrown as I've always seen it, and the sky is the same deep, clear blue. That means that I am probably either in the future, or some time before the Unity War. Scotland became a Cold Island because its early adoption of a NETT grid - the predecessor of our modern Safnet systems - blocked the majority of the nuclear bombardment the North Atlantic region suffered during the Unity War and WWIII. One minor drawback, however, was that they changed the refraction angle for solar light - thus turning the sky green for most of the day. Harmless, but distinctive. A much worse drawback was that in addition to nuclear radiation, the first generation of NETT grids blocked so much UV and infrared light that they inhibited healthy plant growth. For a good twenty years or so, starting during the Unity War, the sky would not have been this blue, and the grass and trees here would hardly have been this lush. In fact, I happen to know the Light Famine damage took a long while to correct - until 20 years after WWIII, at least.
So, I am either after those problems were corrected, or before the technology had been installed in the first place.
But can the lack of a rowan tree be put down to the Light Famine, or have I merely arrived beyond either end of the lifespan of that one tree? It had been large, and very beautiful - I'd estimate at least 70 years old. So, it might be possible for me to be in the past, between approximately 2150 and 2200. . . but then, why those long, thin lines of clouds that span the entire sky? By WWIII jet powered flight was laughably obsolete, but grav-cancelling drone constructs big enough to leave a trail like that? Let alone several? A distant hope for the future, at best. Even in my time they're still almost too expensive to be quite reasonable, crystolic-fusion reactors being so notoriously expensive to miniaturize and all. . .
Then I am either well into the future, or. . .
Jet engines became common in the mid to late 20th century. Conceivably, I could be anywhere from 1960 to 2093, the year before crystolic fusion was discovered.
As for the moon - or, more accurately, the lack of one, I don't know enough about lunar rise and set times to draw any sort of conclusion from that, but I do know Lamb said the moon must be in the sky for the time-travel ritual to work.
That being the case, there is little reason to stay here, no matter when "here" is. I must find shelter and water, food if I can, and make contact with people.
I don't know which one of those scares me more at this point.
And to think - less than a week ago I was on Skycity 15, in my much-despised little tent, bitterly resenting that I was too sick to sell my Doctor-issued food ticket!
Oh, to be back there now!
Funny, how context makes hypocrites of us all. . .
I find a thin trail through the woods, a faint line of brown through a seemingly endless expanse of mottled green, that seems to lead in the general direction of the manse, if by a somewhat roundabout way. At the moment, it feels unwise to go traipsing though the fields alone - far better to have some cover.
A half an hour or so later, I fill my steel bottle with water from a small cascading stream I stumble across. The water tastes earthy and sharp - quite unpleasant, in fact - but for all that, it seems clean enough. Still, I won't drink it unless I fail to find friendly Humans before dark.
I nibble on some pods of sweet Cicely that I find growing under the bank, and as I pick them I discover a tiny hawthorn tree tucked in between two of the overhanging boulders. The spindly branches are dotted with ripe berries. In minutes, I have a nice double-handful of them. I find a relatively clean spot to sit, and settle down to eat. It isn't going to be nearly enough to fill my stomach, but it's still something. The Cicely reminds me of some of the spicy herb-flavoured candies we used to make at the farming station in Lower South-5, and the hawthorn berries taste like a wilder, brighter version of a Skycity miniaturized-hybrid apple. They might even have been a base-note reference when the hybrid was being designed, I'm not sure. They're delicious, anyway, and disappear in five minutes flat.
A frugal breakfast, but flavorful, at least.
A few hundred meters on, I find some Blewitt mushrooms, and not far from there, a somewhat scattered wealth of ripe chestnuts and sprigs of alisanders. I've never been so thankful I studied Historical Botany. I take my steel bottle out of the wool bag and fill the pouch with these finds. The mushrooms are exactly like one of the non-hybridized varieties we grow on Skycity 15, so I trust them, and though I've never seen chestnuts or alisanders before - well, not face-to-face, as it were - they are both so distinctive they're unmistakable. I can eat all three finds raw if I have to, or I can donate them this evening to the cheerful, helpful housewife who will take me in for the night.
I smirk a little. Wishful thinking.
But it's better than imagining the worst.
My thin little path has disappeared and reappeared several times already, so I am not worried when it peters out again. Far off to my left through the tree trunks I can still see the bright edge of the green fields that make the more direct path between the manse and Craigh na Dun. I've never quite let them out of my sight. I shuffle along for a good hour or more, and the morning is well along, the air turning quite bright and warm, when I finally work back around to the manse.
Or where the manse should be! I bite my lip, for fear that when I get there, all I'll find is an empty plot of land.
But no, Mrs. Graham said the house was over 300 years old, didn't she? Jet engine technology isn't too much older than that, I don't think, so the house must be there by now.
Unless, of course, I am in the future. . . or I misread what those long, thin clouds meant. . . or. . .
I shake my head. Speculating isn't going to get me anywhere.
I break out from the trees, ten or fifteen meters from the distinctive stone wall of a vegetable garden. The house is there, every blessedly recognizable wall and beam of it.
But everything else is different.
The house is neither new nor old in appearance, a point in favour of my being in the past, but it is also so clearly abandoned, empty and lonely, that it might as well be ten-thousand years into the future. It looks so forlorn, it strikes me to the heart. Such a secure, thriving, living place I left last night! It is such a blow to see it as it is now, I stand gaping for far longer than is necessary.
Doubtless it is this that makes me trip.
It was a stray stone, one I would have easily noticed had I not been transfixed upon the plight of the house that had been my refuge for the previous three days. A stone, and an incautious step, and a turned ankle is my reward. I collapse to the ground, rendered mute by the initial shock and pain. Eventually, I sit up, wincing as I take off my shoe, and survey the damage. It is already beginning to swell, and a bruise is blooming. I pour some of the cold water from my bottle on it, thinking that might help with the swelling. I explore the anklebones as well as I can with my fingers, and determine that it is a sprain. Not too severe, but sharp enough that I probably cannot walk without limping. That means slow, even more labourious travel.
I have almost decided to stay here at the manse - maybe camp in the greenhouse if the doors to the main house are locked, something, I don't know - when I remember Lamb mentioning a hospital down the road, not too far away.
I don't know what year it is, but I know I am in Scotland, and any place so mad about tradition that they have houses over 300 years old, must surely put hospitals where it is traditional to have hospitals? The road is right there, and it probably would be easier to travel on than a faint path in the woods. . .
I hop and hobble over to the overgrown and weedy garden beds, and pick up a long, sturdy stick to serve me as a crutch. It's a gamble, but aren't I already playing at the highest stakes? When you've traveled though time itself, why quibble with strolling about on a twisted ankle?
Still, I rest for a while on the low garden wall, wishing with all my heart I'd had just a few days more to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and get to know the house and garden a little better. I might have been able to tell if what I am currently looking at came before or after the Grahams' tenure.
Oh well. If I am going, I had better go.
Making it to the road is slow, and excruciating. Walking on the road itself is mildly less slow, but no less painful, until I get a little better with my makeshift crutch. I've slung my bag of chestnuts and mushrooms across my body, and I'm clutching my steel bottle with my free hand. It's awkward, but just on this side of doable.
The sun is climbing towards noon, and by my reckoning I've gone perhaps one kilometer, when I must stop and rest, or I'm afraid I will faint. With every step this seems more and more like a gamble I should not have taken. But, it's a road. There must be people along it somewhere.
All at once, it hits me that I will need a story. I'm injured, I have virtually nothing beyond the slightly odd clothes I'm wearing, no IdenTcard, no functional Communication Number. . . oh, and I don't actually know what year it is.
When I find people, they will have questions. And I can hardly tell them I'm an unfortunate traveler from the year 2279, where I participated in an ancient Pagan time-travel ritual and transported myself through the stones of Craigh na Dun, now, can I?
Although I do admit - that would be a quicker way to get to the hospital. . .
I sit as comfortably as I can, peeling and eating a few chestnuts while I think.
I decide to say I was camping, and was set upon by thieves in the night. I escaped with nothing but my sleeping clothes and one small bag. It's not so far from the truth that I can't back it up, and it can explain my lack of luggage, my strange attire, my twisted ankle, and my presence in general. Perhaps it even will set me up for some pity - or at least some basic understanding. Best of all, it's time non-specific. If this is 1970, I'm pretty sure I can pull off the story. If this is 2470, I'm still pretty sure I can pull it off. I know all too well that as long as there is even a semblance of wilderness, there will be campers. And as long as there is Humanity, there will be thieves and ruffians.
And if I still don't know the year. . . well, if I play my cards right, I'll be able to figure that out just by listening to people. When I find them, of course. . .
Which I'm never going to do just sitting here.
By now my ankle is numb, but the swollen joint has stiffened with inactivity, so it is frustratingly difficult to get moving again, but I persist, and eventually find some sort of a rhythm. Tap, thud, tap, thud. . . The road has widened a bit and is going, I think, slightly uphill. An untrimmed and overgrown hedge to one side tells me that while civilization is fairly nearby, not too many people use this particular road. Heaps of fallen, mouldering leaves everywhere only confirm it.
The forest is just beyond the verge to my other side. I seriously consider going back into its bleak but enclosing shade. There is a creeping, dangerous feeling about walking like this, all in the open. . .
I round a wide, gentle bend, and find myself near a crossroads. Nothing too remarkable about that - I've passed by three today already - but this is the first time I've seen evidence of living people, on the road or anywhere, all day. A few dozen meters down the road, there is a groundcar, sitting half in the verge, clearly abandoned or broken, and around it are four or five figures, some milling around it, some standing like statues.
I take a deep breath and turn down the road towards them.
Tap, thud. . .
Tap, thud. . .
I get a firm grasp on my story, and a firmer grasp on my walking stick.
Tap, thud. . .
Tap, thud. . .
My spirits rise a little as I get closer. They are all uniformed in black or dark blue, and the cut of the jackets is so like our Patrolmen that I can't help smiling.
Tap, thud. . .
Tap, thud. . .
There is no way they haven't seen me coming, and yet as I draw close to them, none of them turn to look at me right away.
My stomach drops, my heart races. . . I don't know what to think, and I'm uncertain what to do.
Then they all turn to look at me at once. Almost like they rehearsed it.
This would be unsettling enough, except. . .
Except. . .
The nearest one of those blank and cheerless faces, is a face that I know. . . and yet he is nothing but a stranger to me.
It is the one face that I know cannot be here, that I cannot believe is here.
And yet, there he is, staring back at me, narrow-eyed and ruthless, nothing like the man he was before.
"Fr. . . Frank?"
He sneers at me, and looks me coldly up and down.
"No."
I don't see the slap coming. It catches me on my left ear, knocking me off balance and forcing all my weight onto my twisted ankle.
And again, I fall.